The coachman had forced his way to the front a minute or so afterwards.
Almost at the same time a stone hit Lavinia's champion in the cheek,
cutting it and drawing blood.

"Cowards!" he shouted. "If you're for fighting at least fight fair. Who
did that?" and he laid his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"At your service, sir. Give me the credit of it. Captain Jeremy Rofflash
isn't the man to let the chance of a little pretty sword play go by."

The speaker was the man who acted as Dorrimore's coachman. He was every
inch a braggadocio. There were many such who had been with Marlborough
and had returned to their native country to earn their living by their
wits and by hiring out their swords.

The fellow who called himself Jeremy Rofflash had not time to draw his
sword; the fist of the man he had thought to frighten had shot out swift
as an arrow, catching him between the eyes and tumbling him backwards.

At the sight of the young gallant's spirit a number of the mob
instantly ranged themselves on his side. Others came on like infuriated
animals on the off chance of Captain Jeremy Rofflash rewarding them for
their services.

"You'd better show these ruffians a clean pair of heels," whispered a
friendly voice in the young man's ear. "To Winchester Stairs--now's your
chance before yonder bully's on his feet."

It was good advice and Lancelot Vane, the young man, budding poet and
playwright, who had found himself involved in a dangerous squabble,