Two fiery spirits confronted each other in the wide grounds the next moment, two swords leaped from their scabbards, and two men struck at each other with vengeful fury.
The silver moon looked down on a scene of strife and bloodshed, and presently on a still form bathed in gore, around which a crowd was gathering, shouting, gesticulating, uttering all sorts of frenzied cries, while some struck out in hot haste after the murderer who had thrown away his sword and rushed headlong from the scene of his dastardly crime.
Presently, through the moving throng of excited maskers rushed the form of a beautiful woman. She flung herself on her knees by the dead man and tore the shrouding mask from his face.
As the moonlight fell on the closed eyes and pallid, handsome face, the Queen of Scots uttered a cry of sharp despair.
“The curse, oh, God! the curse! It is I—it is I who have killed him!”
Some one lifted the swooning form away, some one else knelt there by the still form and felt for the heart.
“He is not dead,” proclaimed the authoritative voice of a physician. “Let a litter be brought immediately and we will carry him into the house.”
The ball broke up in confusion as the wounded man was taken into Lady Heathcote’s house, and a stream of carriages marked the departure of the guests. In one of them was the weeping Lady Edith, attended by her uncle, who was also her guardian.
PART III.
“Alas! it’s far from russet frieze