"Plague on that dog, your lover, Cynthia," he growled from the
mountain of pillows that propped him. "If he should come to
wed my daughter after pinning me to the wainscot of my own hall
may I be for ever damned."

"How?" quoth she. "Do you say that Kenneth did it?"

"Aye, did he. He ran at me ere I could draw, like the coward
he is, sink him, and had me through the shoulder in the
twinkling of an eye."

Here was something beyond her understanding. What were they
concealing from her? She set her wits to the discovery and
plied her father with another question.

"How came you to quarrel?"

"How? 'Twas - 'twas concerning you, child," replied Gregory at
random, and unable to think of a likelier motive.

"How, concerning me?"

"Leave me, Cynthia," he groaned in despair. "Go, child. I am
grievously wounded. I have the fever, girl. Go; let me
sleep."

"But tell me, father, what passed."

"Unnatural child," whined Gregory feebly, "will you plague a
sick man with questions? Would you keep him from the sleep