Two or three persons, having their backs turned towards Julian, sat round a table, and appeared engaged in writing--the voices which he had heard were theirs, as they murmured to each other.
Lady Peveril--the emblem of death, so pallid was her countenance--stood at the distance of a yard or two from her husband, upon whom her eyes were fixed with an intenseness of gaze, like that of one who looks her last on the object which she loves the best.

She was the first to perceive Julian; and she exclaimed, "Merciful Heaven!--my son!--the misery of our house is complete!" "My son!" echoed Sir Geoffrey, starting from the sullen state of dejection, and swearing a deep oath--"thou art come in the right time, Julian.

Strike me one good blow--cleave me that traitorous thief from the crown to the brisket! and that done, I care not what comes next." The sight of his father's situation made the son forget the inequality of the contest which he was about to provoke.
"Villains," he said, "unhand him!" and rushing on the guards with his drawn sword, compelled them to let go Sir Geoffrey, and stand on their own defence.
Sir Geoffrey, thus far liberated, shouted to his lady.

"Undo the belt, dame, and we will have three good blows for it yet--they must fight well that beat both father and son." But one of those men who had started up from the writing-table when the fray commenced, prevented Lady Peveril from rendering her husband this assistance; while another easily mastered the hampered Knight, though not without receiving several severe kicks from his heavy boots--his condition permitting him no other mode of defence.

A third, who saw that Julian, young, active, and animated with the fury of a son who fights for his parents, was compelling the two guards to give ground, seized on his collar, and attempted to master his sword.