"My brother poet!" Martin exclaimed. "You have left the revel early, brother!"
"Can you be serious, Martin, and understand me clearly?" asked Fellowes.
"It happens that I am rather serious just now," was the answer.
"Martin, I was a scoundrel to-night," said Fellowes, catching him by the arm. "I might plead wine as an excuse, but I will not, or love, which I dare not. All women are to be won, you know the roué's damnable creed. I was in despair; a few words from a pure woman's lips had convinced me of my unworthiness, and then I met Rosmore. He ridiculed me; suggested, even, that my love was returned, goaded me to play the lover wilfully and as a man who will not be beaten. Then the wine and the sham courage that is in it drove me on. I sent a lying message, and she came to the hall yonder. I would not let her go, and she cried out. In a moment they came hurrying in upon us, Rosmore with them. They would have turned it to comedy, laughed at her, applauded me; but Rosmore, Martin, drew his sword to defend her—he had played for the opportunity. Had any other man but Rosmore faced me I should say nothing, but he is worse even than I am. You saw the end."
"She was shielding you," said Martin.
"I know. I do not count, but Rosmore desires her, Martin. He thought to stand high with her by killing me to-night. She must never belong to Lord Rosmore. She will listen to you, Martin—she always does, she always has."
"Would you make a Cupid's messenger of me, Mr. Fellowes?"
"Fool! I tell you I am nothing. Save her from Rosmore, that is your mission. My sword, my life are at her service, she knows that, and probably would not use them, no matter what her peril might be; but you, some day, might use me on her behalf, without her knowledge. Take this paper; it is the name of my lodging in town. Keep it. Do you understand? To-morrow I leave the Abbey."
"To join Monmouth?"
"To try and do what is right," Fellowes answered, "and find a worthy death, if possible, to atone for an unworthy life."