“You know, sir, that we all owe our lives to the clemency of this man whom you would assassinate?”
“Bah!” said Berwick fretfully.
Jerome continued steadily.
“He would not even know the names—he would not even lay on us the humiliation of a pardon. He could have sent us to the gallows by the lifting of his finger.”
“Well, why didn’t he do it?” demanded Berwick. “Because he was afraid, of course; because he didn’t dare touch us.”
A loud assent went up; Caryl stepped back a little from his place with a gleam in his eyes.
“This is not the way to win England for the Stuarts,” he said.
“Traitor!” yelled Porter again, rising from his seat.
“It is you who soil your cause by these vile suggestions,” flung back Jerome.
Berwick rose; his narrow face crimson; he made as if to speak; but Porter, in ungovernable fury, had seized one of the candlesticks and flung it past the Duke at Jerome; as it crashed to the ground, some one drew his sword and Celia Hunt climbed onto the table, shrieking.