The turf heaved and rolled as if an earthquake moved it; the houses fronting the square and the trees immediately before him leaped and danced as if suddenly launched into grotesque animation, while about him swirled a wild, incoherent noise of voices, rising and falling, now loud, now silent, and reaching him through a murmuring hum that surged about his ears until it shut out all else and consciousness deserted him.
Around him, meanwhile, a wild scene was toward.
His Grace of Wharton had wrenched away the sword from Rotherby, and mastered by an effort his own impulse to use it upon the murderer.
Captain Mainwaring--Rotherby's own second, a man of quick, fierce passions--utterly unable to control himself, fell upon his lordship and beat him to the ground with his hands, cursing him and heaping abuse upon him with every blow; whilst delicate Mr.Falgate, in the background, sick to the point of faintness, stood dabbing his lips with his handkerchief and swearing that he would rot before he allowed himself again to be dragged into an affair of honor.
"Ye damned cutthroat!" swore the militia captain, standing over the man he had felled.

"D'ye know what'll be the fruits of this?
Ye'll swing at Tyburn like the dirty thief y' are.

God help me! I'd give a hundred guineas sooner than be mixed in this filthy business." "'Tis no matter for that now," said the duke, touching him on the shoulder and drawing him away from his lordship.

"Get up, Rotherby." Heavily, mechanically, Rotherby got to his feet.

Now that the fit of rage was over, he was himself all stricken at the thing he had done.