“Là, là, là!” she shrieked. “You threw up your arm: it is only the coward that has the instinct to throw up his arm to a woman!”
My lord laughed like an old demon. Ned was on his feet, white and furious.
“You are a woman!” he cried, “and the more shame to you!”
She jumped from her chair. As she did so the monkey sprang to her left shoulder, on which it seated itself, gibbering and quarrelling.
“I claim for the only privilege of my sex to despise the Joseph!” she cried. “For the rest, I can fight for my honour, monsieur, as you shall see!”
She skipped, for accent to the paradox, in great apparent excitement; hurried to a window embrasure, stooped, and faced about with a naked rapier in her hand.
“Draw!” she cried; and, running over to the door, turned the key in the lock and feinted at the amazed young man. All the while the monkey clung to her, adapting its position to her every movement.
“Is this a snare?” said Ned coldly. He looked at his uncle, his hand clenched at his hip. But he wore no weapon but his recovered composure.
The old villain drew his own blade and flung it across the table to his nephew.
“Fight, you dog!” he sputtered and mumbled. He was deplorably drunk. “Fight!” he shrieked, “and take a lesson to your cursed self-importance!”