Sir Perseus flushed angrily.
“What brief have you in this cause? Lady Dalrymple cannot shrink from the Countess’s company. As I said, the situation is the same—Tom Wharton is as worthless a rake as Harry Sidney—and as fortunate a lover,—while Sir John is as complacent a husband as the Earl—”
Mr. Wedderburn leaned forward and struck the speaker on the breast with his clenched hand so fiercely that he staggered and almost fell, struck him with such fury and unrestrained passion that he gave a cry, thinking a madman attacked him, struck him with his hand and then with his crumpled glove full on his wincing face.
“You bring your lies to the wrong market, you Papist cur!” he said hoarsely. “I am John Dalrymple and I stand here to refute your cursed slanders!”
He flung aside his gloves and cloak and his sword sprang out in the candle-light.
“My God!” whispered Sir Perseus, reeling against the wall with a sick face.
The Master of Stair came toward him; his bared sword glittering as it shook to the quick breathing of his fury.
“You!” he said with mad eyes, dark and narrow. “You—the Frenchman’s spy—the priest’s tool—the mouthpiece of the scandals of the gutter—you, to drag my name through the mire to make a party cry!”
Sir Perseus drew himself together desperately.
“John Dalrymple!” he cried. “You have betrayed yourself too soon—by God you have!”