Of course, if Elfrida had really wished to interfere, it would have been the simplest thing in the world for her to call aloud to Ambert; that would have checked the fracas before it came to any serious proportions; but, oddly enough, after her one protest to Mr. Browne, she had stood looking on, as if spellbound. She had heard everything—seen everything. She had not even shown anger when Dicky went into silent hysterics over Ambert's appearance as he rose from the ground covered with dust and his coat considerably the worse for wear.
As Ambert slunk away between the trees, Mr. Browne darted forward and up to Blount and wrapped him in a warm embrace.
"Blount, how I love you!" cried he sentimentally. "Oh, Tom, what a treat you've given me! You couldn't do it all over again, could you?"
"What the deuce am I to say to the bishop?" said he. He looked quite limp now. The light of battle had died from his eyes.
"Nothing—not a word!" said Dicky. "Do you think that beggar won't be glad to keep his skinning quiet?"
"After all, I shouldn't have thrashed him, Browne. It—it was unclerical—unchristian, you know."
"It was the most Christian act of your life," said Mr. Browne.
"It was an act of martyrdom. Because if you hadn't done it, somebody else would, and so you've saved the soul of another. See?"
"I don't," said Blount. "I ought to have argued with him—borne with him."
"And been trampled under foot by him. Not a bit of it. Come along with me. Elfrida is in here, and she—-"