Lord Monteagle dropped his sword and fell.
'You had better fly, Lord Cadurcis,' said Mr. Horace Pole. 'This is a
bad business, I fear; we have a surgeon at hand, and he can help us to
the coach that is waiting close by.'
'I thank you, sir, I never fly,' said Lord Cadurcis; 'and I shall wait
here until I see your principal safely deposited in his carriage; he
will have no objection to my friend, Lord Scrope, assisting him, who,
by his presence to-day, has only fulfilled one of the painful duties
that society imposes upon us.'
The surgeon gave an unfavourable report of the wound, which he dressed
on the field. Lord Monteagle was then borne to his carriage, which was
at hand, and Lord Scrope, the moment he had seen the equipage move
slowly off, returned to his friend.
'Well Cadurcis,' he exclaimed in an anxious voice, 'I hope you have
not killed him. What will you do now?'
'I shall go home, and await the result, my dear Scrope. I am sorry for
you, for this may get you into trouble. For myself, I care nothing.'
'You bleed!' said Lord Scrope.
'A scratch. I almost wish our lots had been the reverse. Come, Scrope,
help me on with my coat. Yesterday I lost my heart, last night I lost
my money, and perhaps to-morrow I shall lose my arm.
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