But there was a strange look in the faithful Irishman’s eyes, a look of mute suffering. Lord Clancarty slipped a ring off his finger and gave it to him.
“Denis,” he said, in an even voice, quiet and cheerful, “if I fall, take that to Lady Clancarty and tell her that she is free.”
“Yes, my lord,” replied Denis, in a dull tone, not looking up.
“Even if I do not fall, you will take it to her with that message,” continued the earl, looking across the meadow at the approaching figures of his opponent and their seconds and, perhaps, his thoughts dwelt on that morning when Lady Betty put the swords aside. “We will leave here to-morrow, Denis, or—” he shrugged his shoulders, “there is little money left.”
“Faix, we’ll have to see th’ Jews again, me lord,” said the man dolefully; “they’re afther bein’ me most familiar friends, the jewels!”
Clancarty laughed.
A moment later he was bowing with ceremonious courtesy to Lord Savile and Mr. Benham. Young Mackie came up, too, bringing a fourth person.
“I brought a surgeon, gentlemen,” he said half apologetically; “Dr. Radcliffe, my Lord Savile and—Mr. Trevor.”
Dr. Radcliffe, a large man wearing a rich but old-fashioned dress and a huge periwig, bowed gravely. He had a large practice and was famous for a freedom of speech that had once gone so far as to offend King William.
“I have to thank you, gentlemen, for furnishing me with patients,” he remarked dryly; “let me beg you not to be too thorough.”