“For shame!” she cried, thrusting their weapons aside with her own white hands, “for shame! So, there is no better cause for a fight than a song?”
At the sight of her the two men stepped back in sheer amazement, sinking their sword points in the ground at her feet.
“Ay, shame on you both!” she cried with sparkling eyes; “’tis but a pretty fashion of murder—and I’ll none of it! Put up your weapons, gentlemen, for he who draws his here is my friend no more!”
Lord Savile’s sword leaped into its sheath, but Clancarty kissed the hilt of his and handed it to Lady Betty.
“Madam, my honor is involved,” he said, “and I place it in your hands.”
The color rose in her cheeks and she turned on Savile.
“My lord,” she said wilfully, “I heard it all, and ’tis you who should ask pardon.”
Savile flushed darkly and folded his arms.
“My lady,” he said, “my sword is at your service, but you ask too much now.”
“Ah, you will not trust me with your honor, my lord,” she retorted, with a little laugh.