"Have ye been gathering roses—and here?" He pointed to the ghostly churchyard.
"Ah, let me be," said my lord wearily.
His seriousness excited their malicious merriment. They did not guess at his inward anger, nor did he allow for their light-hearted folly. Then, in a second, it happened.
"Dead roses!" cried Lord Sandys, and tried to snatch them.
The Earl turned without warning and struck him across the cheek with his glove.
Instantly all were sobered. Lord Sandys gave a cry of rage, and drew his sword. My lord dropped his cloak the length of his arm, laid gloves and flowers on the churchyard step and unsheathed his rapier. The others moved back, ringing them round.
"Why did you do that?" breathed Lord Sandys.
Rose Lyndwood did not answer; his face was flushed and reckless.
Their swords crossed. The veiled moonlight was confusing, and both were angered to passion. The light rapiers clashed aimlessly for a second.
"Come to a better spot," cried one.