The Greatest Historical Novels & Romances of D. K. Broster. D. K. Broster

debouched into the square. When they got there they drew back into the mouth of an entry and stood half-crouching, as if waiting.

      Surprise and curiosity kept Ewen staring; then he realised that these men were probably lurking there with a purpose far from innocent. And even as he started back towards the entry this purpose was revealed, for the bulk of a sedan-chair, with its porters, came suddenly into view, crossing the end of the street, on its way, no doubt, to one of the great houses in the square; and instantly the two men darted towards it, flourishing their weapons, which had the appearance of bludgeons.

      Ewen quickened his pace to a run, ran in fact with all his might to the succour of the sedan-chair, which very probably contained a lady. He was certainly needed by its occupant, of whichever sex, for the two chairmen, calling loudly for the watch, had taken ingloriously to their heels at the approach of danger. Before Ewen came up one of the footpads had already lifted the roof of the chair, opened the door, and was pulling forth no female in distress, but a protesting elderly gentleman in flowered brocade, stout and a trifle short. Yet he was a valiant elderly gentleman, for, the moment he succeeded in freeing his right arm, out flashed his sword. But the next instant his weapon was shivered by a cudgel blow, and he himself seized by the cravat.

      That, however, was the exact instant also at which another sword, with a longer and a younger arm behind it, came upon the assailants from the rear. Apparently they had not heard Ardroy’s hurrying footfalls, nor his shouts to them to desist. Now one of them turned to face him; but his stand was very short. He dropped his cudgel with a howl and ran back down the narrow street. His fellow, of a more tenacious breed, still held on to the cravat of the unfortunate gentleman, trying to wrest out the diamond brooch which secured the lace at his throat. Ewen could have run his sword through the aggressor from side to side, but, being afraid of wounding the gentleman as well, took the course of crooking his left arm round the man’s neck from behind, more than half-choking him. The assailant’s hands loosed the cravat with remarkable celerity and tore instead at the garotting arm round his own throat. The rescuer then flung him away, and, as the footpad rolled in the gutter, turned in some concern to the victim of the attack, who by this time was hastily rearranging his assaulted cravat.

      “My dear sir,” began the latter in a breathless voice, desisting and holding out both his hands, “my dear sir, I can never thank you enough . . . most noble conduct . . . most noble! I am your debtor for life! No, thank you, I am shaken, but little the worse. If you will have the further goodness to lend me your arm to my house—’tis but a few paces distant—and then I must insist on your entering that I may thank my preserver more fittingly. I sincerely trust,” he finished earnestly, “that you are yourself unharmed?”

      Ewen assured him that this was the case, and, sheathing the sword which in England there was no embargo upon his wearing, offered his arm. By this time the second footpad had also vanished.

      “The outrageousness,” went on the rescued gentleman, “the insolence, of such an attack within a few yards of my own door! Those rascally chairmen—I wonder were they in collusion? I vow I’ll never take a hired chair again. . . . There come the watch—too late as usual! My dear sir, what would have befallen me without your most timely assistance Heaven alone knows!”

      They were by this time mounting the steps of a large house in the square, whose domestics, even if they had not heard the disturbance in the street, must have been on the look-out for their master’s entrance, for he had given but the slightest tap with the massive knocker before the door swung open, revealing a spacious, pillared hall and a couple of lackeys. Almost before he knew it, Ewen was inside, having no great desire to enter, but realising that it would be churlish to refuse.

      “A most disgraceful attack has just been made upon me, Jenkins,” said the master of the house, to a resplendent functionary who then hurried forward. “Here, at the very corner of the square. Had it not been for this gentleman’s gallantry in coming to my assistance—— If that is the watch come to ask for particulars,” as another knock was heard at the hall door, “tell them to come again in the morning; I’ll not see them now.”

      “Yes, my lord,” said the resplendent menial respectfully. “Your lordship was actually attacked!” His tone expressed the acme of horror. “May I ask, has your lordship suffered any hurt?”

      “None at all, none at all, thanks to this gentleman. All my lady’s company is gone, I suppose? Has she retired? No? I am glad of it. Now, my dear sir,” he went on, laying his hand on Ewen’s arm, “allow me the pleasure of presenting you to my wife, who will wish to add her thanks to mine.” He steered his rescuer towards the great staircase, adding as he did so, “By the way, I fancy I have not yet told you who I am—the Earl of Stowe, henceforward very much yours to command.”

      CHAPTER XVIII

       CROSSING SWORDS

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      If a man ever wished himself well out of a situation in which, as it happened, his own prowess had landed him, it was Ewen Cameron of Ardroy when that announcement fell upon his ears. What fatality had induced him to succour and be brought home by the father of the very man whom he had treated so scurvily two months ago, and who had sworn to be revenged upon him? Obviously the wisest course was to excuse himself and withdraw before he could meet that injured young gentleman.

      But already Lord Stowe was motioning him with a courteous gesture to ascend the imposing staircase. Without great incivility he could not withdraw now, nor, it seemed to him, without great cowardice to boot. And if he must encounter Lord Aveling again, this place and these circumstances were certainly more favourable than any which he could have devised for himself. Moreover, Aveling might not be in London at this moment. Above all, Ewen’s was a stubborn courage as well as, on occasions, a hot-brained one; he never relished running away. He therefore went on up the wide, shallow staircase, and was looked down upon with haughty disapproval by Aveling’s ancestors.

      Outside a door the Earl paused. “May I know the name of my preserver?”

      “I beg your pardon, my lord,” returned Ewen. “I forgot that I had not made myself known to you. My name is Ewen Cameron of Ardroy, at your service.”

      Now, what had Lord Stowe heard of Ewen Cameron of Ardroy? If anything at all, nothing of good, that was certain. The bearer of that name lifted his head with a touch of defiance, for its utterance had certainly brought about a change in his host’s expression.

      “A kinsman of the unfortunate Doctor Cameron’s, perhaps?” he inquired.

      “Yes. He is my cousin—and my friend,” answered Ewen uncompromisingly.

      “Ah,” observed Lord Stowe with a not unsympathetic intonation, “a sad business, his! But come, Mr. Cameron.” And, opening the heavy inlaid door, he ushered him into an enormous room of green and gold, where every candle round the painted walls burned, but burned low, and where the disposition of the furniture spoke of a gathering now dispersed. But the most important person still remained. On a sofa, in an attitude of incomparable grace, languor and assurance, with a little book poised lazily between her long fingers, half-sat, half-reclined the most beautiful woman whom Ewen had ever seen. And then only, in the suddenness of these events and introductions, did he realise that he was in the presence of Keith Windham’s mother as well as of Lord Aveling’s.

      As the door shut Lady Stowe half-turned her head, and said in silver tones, “You are returned at last, my lord. Do I see that you bring a guest?”

      “I do, my love,” replied her husband, “and one to whom we owe a very great debt indeed.” And Ewen was led forward across the acres of carpet to that gilt sofa, and kissed the cool, fragrant hand extended to him, but faintly conscious of embarrassment at the praises of his courage which the Earl was pouring forth, and with all thoughts of an avenging Aveling dissipated. It was of Lady Stowe’s elder son, his dead friend, whom he thought as he looked at that proud and lovely face. Not that there was any likeness. But surely this could not have