She flashed a fierce stare at him, and then drew back close to the window. It was then that her eyes met the eyes of some one in the room, some one who had been standing in the background, and who was watching her with intense earnestness. She recognized John Gore. A rush of appeal and of chivalrous sympathy seemed to leap from face to face.
My Lord of Pembroke advanced a step. There was something satanic about his eyes.
“Come, little simpleton.”
He stretched out an arm, and caught her wrist roughly. But she twisted it free.
“Gently, my wild filly; we must break you to harness. Come—now—”
He was shouldered aside abruptly with a vigor that set the whole room gaping at the thunderclap that would follow. A shortish, sturdy man with a brown, imperturbable face had established himself calmly between my lord and Barbara Purcell.
“It seems, my lord, that, since you are all Christians, I am the only heathen in the room.”
The retort came instantly with a sweep of the peer’s arm. John Gore was ready for it, and put the blow aside. Half a dozen gentlemen rushed in and made a human barrier between the pair.
My Lord of Pembroke struggled like a knot of fire half smothered by damp fuel.
“Hold off, fools! Let go my arm, Howard, or by God, I’ll run my sword through you!”