"I have done nothing to give me cause to make an apology; I appeal to the table, should I make one? Lord Wentworth, what say you?"
"You have insulted me, Sir Richard, and by G— I'll have one, or know the reason why. I don't care who says you should not, I say you shall—I am waiting for an apology!"
"You may wait, De Vere, till doomsday,—you may sit there till you die,—but never will I apologize when I have done no fault."
"You have committed a fault. Ha! I see you are incapable of feelings like a man of honour; you must be forced to feel as you should. Sir Richard, you say you did not intend to insult me, I say you lie most foully in your throat; there—will that do?"
A thrill of horror ran like an electric shock through the company.
"Ha! you give me the lie, do you?" said Sir Richard, blanching with rage, "then take that."
As he spoke he threw a glassful of port wine across the table: the liquid hit the Captain on his mouth and chin, and poured over his orders and medals, for he was in full uniform. The revenge was quick as thought! Uttering a fearful malediction, the enraged officer seized a heavy cut glass tumbler, and threw it at Sir Richard with unerring aim. The Baronet dodged aside from the missile, and saved himself a blow on the centre of his forehead, but he did not escape. The tumbler struck him a terrific blow on his temples, and, as it flew into a dozen fragments, inflicted a terrible wound. In an instant, as by one consent, the whole table sprung to their feet. For a moment, too paralyzed to speak, a deathly silence reigned. The Captain's face was lit by a fiendish smile, as he wiped the red wine off his breast. Sir Richard's face was black with ire, as he staunched the blood that covered his forehead with his kerchief. The two foes looked as if they could have leaped the barrier that severed them, and locked in each other's arms divided not to death.
Soon a confused murmuring arose on all sides, and then voices grew louder.
"I wouldn't stand that," said Wilson.
"Nor I," said Frank.