“Hardly,” said Bart. “I know better than that.”
“You can’t avoid it.”
“Oh, yes, I can!”
“You shall not! I will force you into it!”
“And I shall insist on meeting you with the weapons provided for us by nature, our fists.”
“Do you think I could be satisfied that way for such an insult? No! You have come here to force a quarrel upon me! I see that!”
“Nothing of the sort. I’ve come here to compel you to tell the truth, and, by Heaven! I’m going to make you do it!”
“You can never force me to anything! You want the fight, and you shall have it! I will let out some of your nasty American blood! I may kill you!”
Then, with a pantherlike leap, Defarge reached the wall against which hung a pair of crossed rapiers. Quick as a flash, he grasped them and tore them down, whirling them in his hands. Seizing the hilt of one, he flung the other with a clanging sound at Bart’s feet, shouting:
“Take it and fight for your life, you American pig, for I swear I’ll run you through without mercy if you don’t!”