It was a gaping furrow of a wound; and the horrid shock of it, when Noah's steel caught in the shoulder bones, brought the wretched Catron to the floor. The blood ran away in a crimson rivulet from the prostrate one; and to tell the best and the worst of me, I've yet to look on blood, or anything besides, which brought me so much of comfort and of the sweetness of peace.
While the surgeon, needle and lint going, dealt with Catron, I conveyed Noah to the end of the room. We must await the report of yon fellow's condition; we could not leave the field without consent of Pigeon-breast—quite pale and stricken now, was Pigeon-breast, as he stood watching while the bandages were wound.
Following a nod of the surgeon's, Pigeon-breast came towards me. I met him on his way.
“The thing is ended,” said Pigeon-breast; his voice came huskily, and in a fashion faint. “The thing is at an end. My friend can not hold sword.”
“That is enough,” said I.
“One word, sir,” said Noah, coming forward, handkerchief all red where he had been cleaning his blade; “you are to take notice: I from this day shall seek out with challenge each man who speaks evil of Mrs. Eaton. That creature who lies there, and whom, maugre his wound, I still contemn for the rogue and fetch-dog of Henry Clay I painted him, may be for warning.”
“But has Mrs. Eaton no husband to fight for her?” sputtered Pigeon-breast, not relishing Noah's attitude.
“Let that go by,” retorted Noah, sternly. “Your diplomacy shall not reach. Again I tell you, he who shall assail Mrs. Eaton with word or look, or who fails to please that lady with his conduct, replies to me. I wounded this one; I shall slay the next.”
“What is this to be?” cried Pigeon-breast, appealing to me in a flutter of spiteful fright. “Is it that we have a bravo?”
“A bravo whom you are like to encounter, sir,” I said, “unless you teach your tongue some prudence—you and your tribe.”