Miss Vane's handkerchief fell to her lap. The General stared at the speaker open-mouthed. The man's native nobility of soul amazed them both. Andrew Westwood went on soberly.
"You have not asked Mr. Lepel how he came to fight Mr. Vane, sir. You might be sure that it wasn't for a poor reason; and there was never anything considered dishonorable in a fair fight between two armed men."
"That does not do away with the injury to yourself," said the General grimly. "Such blame as there was ought to have been borne by him and not by you."
Westwood waved his hand.
"As for injury," he said, "me and Cynthia have agreed to forget about that. If I'd been at Portland all this time, why, then no doubt I should feel it worse. But I got away after four years of it, and made my way to America, and 'struck ile' there. I've done better since then than, ever I did in my life before; so I have no need to complain. But you haven't asked him why he fought Mr. Vane, sir."
"Well, why was it?" said the General sternly and grudgingly.
He did not see that his wife suddenly rose from her seat, and with clasped hands darted a look full of miserable fear and entreaty towards her brother. But all the others saw, though some of them did not understand; and Hubert responded to the appeal.
"I cannot tell you," he answered, with his eyes on the ground.
"But I can!" said Westwood. "And Mrs. Vane could, if she chose! Blame her if you like, sir, for she's known the truth all along as much as Mr. Hubert's done; and it was to save her that he would not open his lips."
They had tried in vain to stop him—Hubert by angry imperative words, Flossy by a piteous cry of terror; but Westwood's rough sonorous voice rose above all other sounds. He paused for a moment, looking at the General's face of incredulous dismay, at Mrs. Vane's shrinking figure, and his tones softened a little as he spoke again.