Then he slowly wiped his blade upon the cloak, sheathed it with care, and walked steadily away, along the path that led to the valley.
Hare watched him go, till the dark laurel bushes received and hid him. Then he looked over again at the motionless figure, and in a panic, sent loud calls ringing into the air: “Help here! Hoy—Hello! Master Rockhurst hurt, ill,—dead! Help!”
Rockhurst was the first to hear the cry. In a trice he was back in the Peacock Walk, kneeling by the bench. Hare was at his heels, gabbling his tale. Half his words went unheeded, but some found their mark in the father’s heart:—
“And Lionel says: ‘Rakehell Rockhurst’ (he, he!). ‘A devil with the women!’ says he. And Harry hits him across the mouth. ‘Liar!’ says Harry. Oh, ’twas a pretty quarrel. ’Twas a cracking slap!—”
As Rockhurst lifted his boy and supported him in his arms, light came back to the eyes so dark in the white face, and, stretching himself, Harry returned to consciousness and smiled up at his father like a waking child. Rockhurst tore the stained clothing apart with fierce hands, then drew a deep sigh of relief. His experience in such matters took stock of the wound—an ugly tear in truth, long, laying bare the ribs, but not deep.
“’Tis not vital—thank God! Go, call for help, man!” cried he sharply, looking up at the staring Edward. And off trotted the lout. Now came Diana, hastening, bewildered.
Lovers have quick ears: through the dimness of his returning consciousness Harry caught the sound of her steps. He tried to raise himself in his father’s embrace. There was a sudden shame upon him that he had done so womanish a thing as to swoon, this day when, of all days, he had so much reason to play the man.
“’Tis a mere scratch, my lord,” he murmured. Then, with an anxious glance on his father’s face, he added, stammering: “Master Lionel was showing me a new French pass, and I—I slipped—” He broke off; never before had he seen tears in his father’s eyes.
With a flutter like that of a settling bird, Diana sank on her knees beside them. With a soft cry, full of ruth, she took her boy lover’s hand. As he had passed her, running on Lord Rockhurst’s errand, her brother had bellowed his tidings:—
“A pretty quarrel! About you, sister! Ecod—there was talk about your virtue—and Master Harry’s slap, and Coz Lionel out with his tuck—”