"Barbara Winslow!"
Ralph sprang to his feet, and for a moment the two men stood together, their glasses raised aloft, looking down with adoration where she sat blushing and laughing in all the pride of her beauty. Then crying her name again, they drank the toast, and with a simultaneous impulse turned and dashed their glasses against the wainscot, so that the shining fragments fell like showers upon the floor.
The moment of enthusiasm passed, the two men turned sharply and glared at one another, with a silent challenge in their eyes.
Cicely saw the look and trembled, and deeming it wisdom at once to remove this apple of discord from the feast, she rose quickly, and smiling good-night to her companions, carried her cousin off to bed.
When they were left together the two men seated themselves at the table, but there was a silence between them, and a shadow brooded over the room.
At length Ralph pushed aside his glass, and leant across the table towards his companion with the air of one who has determined on his course.
"Whither are you bound now, Protheroe?" he began. "What are your plans?"
Captain Protheroe hesitated a moment.
"There is no chance for me in England yet," he said slowly, "though General Churchill would give me his help. But there is no room in the army for Kirke and myself—at present. No, I shall to Holland, I have a cousin there already, and take service with the Prince of Orange, he is a man to be served."
There was a moment's pause. Then Ralph continued with a would-be careless air.