“And think you I will tamely brook this insult?” roared Sir Giles; “draw your sword at once, and let it be a mortal combat between us.”

“Never,” replied Sir Jocelyn, disdainfully.  “I will not stoop to the level of your infamy.”

“Then stoop to earth,” cried Sir Giles, aiming a terrible blow at him with his sword.

If the stroke had taken effect as intended, it would probably have made good Mompesson’s threat, but Sir Jocelyn was too wary and too agile even for his powerful assailant.  Before the sword could descend, he seized his adversary’s wrist, and in another instant possessed himself of the blade.  This he accomplished without injury, as the sword was blunted.  Still maintaining his grasp of the weapon, he raised himself in his stirrups to give additional force to the blow, and with the pummel of the sword, struck Sir Giles a blow upon the brainpan with such violence, that he dropped from the saddle as if shot.

During this strange scene, not a word had been uttered by the spectators, who looked on with the greatest curiosity, wondering how it would end.  As Sir Giles fell from his horse, and lay stretched in perfect insensibility on the ground, a tremendous shout was raised, and Sir Jocelyn was as much applauded as if he had performed an extraordinary feat—­so universally was the extortioner detested.

Nor was there any sympathy manifested, when a few moments afterwards Sir Giles was raised from the ground by the pursuivants, and his helmet being removed, exhibited a countenance livid as death, with a stream of blood coursing slowly down the temples.  Many would have been well-pleased if he had been killed outright, but the chirurgeon in attendance pronounced that he was only stunned by the blow.

CHAPTER XIV.

The private Cabinet of Sir Giles Mompesson.

A small room, and rendered yet smaller by the numerous chests and strong boxes encroaching upon its narrow limits.  In some cases these boxes are piled, one upon another, till they touch the ceiling.  All of them look stout enough, yet many are further strengthened by iron hoops and broad-headed nails, and secured by huge padlocks.  The door is cased with iron, within and without, and has a ponderous lock, of which the master of the room always keeps the key, and never trusts it out of his own hand.

This small chamber is the private cabinet of Sir Giles Mompesson.

No one is permitted to enter it without him.  Though his myrmidons are fully aware of its existence, and can give a shrewd guess at its contents, only two of them have set foot within it.  The two thus privileged are Clement Lanyere and Lupo Vulp.  Neither the promoter nor the scrivener are much in the habit of talking over their master’s affairs, even with their comrades, and are almost as habitually reserved as he is himself; still, from the few words let fall by them from time to time, the myrmidons