“And who the devil might you be?” demanded a voice.
“My name, sirs, is John Dering, and I am here to tell Mr. Markham in your presence that he cannot fight my Lord Sayle since I have the prior claim, a claim I will forgo to no man breathing. I am here also to tell you, gentlemen of Sussex, that I stand solemnly pledged to drive my Lord Sayle out o’ the country or eventually kill him—whichsoever he desire, for——”
Here my Lord Sayle, who had remained like one entranced, staring up into the fiercely scornful eyes above him, succeeded in breaking the spell at last, and, roaring a savage curse, picked up the first thing to hand, which happened to be a snuff-box, and hurled it at his tormentor. But Sir John, ever watchful, avoided the missile, which, striking an inoffensive gentleman on the head, deluged him and those adjacent with snuff, a choking, blinding shower.
Hereupon, clapping perfumed handkerchief to nostrils, Sir John took up the holly-stick, slipped his hand within Mr. Markham’s arm and sped from the room, leaving wild tumult and uproar behind.
Upon the landing, while he paused to sheathe his sword, the imperturbable Robert took occasion to transfer the door-key from inside to out, and having locked the gasping, groaning, cursing sufferers securely in, followed his master downstairs.
“Sir, how——” gasped Mr. Markham between his sneezes. “Sir John, how may I ... a-tish ... express my depths of—gratitude?”
“By hastening back to her who will be growing anxious for you, sir——”
“Aye, I will—I will, sir!” cried Mr. Markham. “You see, sir, she ... I ... we are hoping ... expecting ... a-tisha! ... d’you understand, Sir John?”
“And give ye joy o’ the event, Mr. Markham. My heartiest congratulations and best ... asha!” Here Sir John sneezed violently in turn. “My best—aho—wishes for you and her and—it, sir!”