"No, no,—if I thought her wrong, I should not blame her as you do. Your partiality to Edmund blinds you, and you fancy my poor child has a thousand faults, because she was not sensible to the merit of your son."
"You mistake me quite; my opinion of Elvira would be just the same if Edmund were not in existence: though I acknowledge frankly, that every time I see his fine noble countenance, worn with care—his pale cheeks and sunken eyes—I feel a pang through my inmost soul. It is a strange infatuation that she should repulse my noble boy, and yet elope so readily with a youth she scarcely knew."
"Take care what you say, Sir Ambrose—take care what you say,—I will not have my child insulted."
"I do not wish to insult her—I speak but the truth—I do not even think her guilty, though the whole Court rings with her shame."
"Guilt! shame! And this to me? Oh God! Oh God! I have lived too long! To hear my child thus basely slandered, and be unable to resent it!"
"Base! and is this the conclusion of our long friendship—Base! and have I lived to be called base, for merely blaming a coquettish wanton?"
"Wanton!" cried the duke, and transported by his passion he struck Sir Ambrose violently. The aged baronet could not endure this insult; his sword flew from his scabbard, and in a few seconds these ancient friends were engaged in mortal combat.
It was a shocking thing to see these two old men, their white hair streaming in the wind—their venerable features wrinkled with age, and their feeble frames tottering for support—fighting with all the vindictive fury of youth. How fearful is the storm of passion! How vile the human heart when left to its own workings! Every gentler feeling was extinguished in the breasts of the two veterans, and only brutal rage remained. For some time victory was doubtful; but at last Sir Ambrose fell, and in another moment the sword of his antagonist would have passed through his bosom, had not a powerful arm arrested the stroke. It was Edmund! he had heard the clashing of swords at a distance, and, rushing to the spot, arrived just in time to prevent the fatal blow.
"Oh my father!" cried Edmund with a thrill of horror, "for God's sake, do not die till you have forgiven me! He hears me not!" cried he, wringing his hands in unutterable anguish. "Oh, for mercy's sake, speak! Do not destroy me."
Sir Ambrose feebly opened his languid eyes: "Farewell," said he, faintly: "God bless you!"