Young Conyers' face had not been pretty before, but, at sound of his enemy's name, it became uglier still.
"Michael Berrington," he screamed. "What! the son of that foul coward, Stephen Berrington? Faugh! I would have sent the lackeys to beat you from the place had I known it."
The colour crept up in a dull flush under Michael's tan. "I can't hit a man who is down," he growled; "but be careful of your words, sir, or I'll cram them down your throat another day."
But Morice Conyers had risen slowly to his feet, white of cheek, swollen of feature, but scornful-eyed.
"I'll not waste words with the son of a traitor and murderer," said he slowly, and beckoned to his little sister.
"Come, Gay," he said; "there will be a talking for you when we reach home, an' a whipping into the bargain if you do not promise amendment of such ways. Fie on you for a naughty chit."
But Gabrielle's eyes were glowing as she looked from her brother to the blood-stained countenance of her true knight.
Had he not fought for her?
With a defiant toss of brown curls she had flown to Michael's side.
"I hate Morry," she cried, flinging warm arms around his neck. "And ... and I love you, Michael."