“You are right, Sire,” rejoined Osbert. “Draw, and defend your life.”
“Peace, madman!” cried Philip, disdainfully. “Think you I will deign to cross swords with you?”
“Heaven grant me patience, I am driven to the verge of frenzy!” ejaculated Osbert, distractedly.
“At last you are beginning to comprehend your true position,” observed Philip, in a taunting tone, “and perceive that you are utterly without help.”
“Not utterly,” cried a deep voice. And Derrick Carver strode into the room. “Heaven will not desert them in their need. Thou hast uttered threats against them which thou wilt never live to execute. Thou has ventured into this dwelling, but wilt never return from it. My hand failed me when I first struck at thee, but it will not fail me now.”
“Make the attempt, then, if thou think’st so, assassin!” cried Philip, keeping his eye steadily upon him.
“Hold!” exclaimed Osbert. “His life is sacred.”
“Not in my eyes,” rejoined Carver. “It were a crime to my country and to my religion to spare their deadliest foe. He shall die by my hand.”
“I say it must not be,” cried Osbert. “No harm must be done him. Persist, and I come to his defence.”
“Fool! you destroy yourself, and her who should be dearer to you than life, by this mistimed weakness,” rejoined Derrick Carver. “Leave him to me.”