My door was suddenly opened. He entered holding himself up on his cane.
In all my life—no, never in all my life shall I forget the look of fiery rage that gleamed in his eyes. His face was like a marble mask lit up by two blazing eyeballs.
"Defend yourself!" cried he, in a voice that shook with indignation, and holding out my letter in his hand; "where is your weapon?"
A frightful remorse seized me, so violent was it that a cowardly retraction of my infamy was on my lips.
"Henry!" said I, in despair, pointing to my letter, "pardon!"
"Pardon! You don't mean to fight?" cried Falmouth, in a fury.
The blood rushed to my face, the shame of being thought a coward exasperated me, and I answered, "Monsieur, I will fight with whatever weapon you choose."
"Thanks for such extreme politeness. What weapon do you fight with? I have had enough of this," repeated he, savagely.
I was almost bursting with rage, but remembering that Falmouth was on his own yacht, I controlled myself.
"Both you and I," said I, "are too badly wounded to use our swords,—pistols would be the most suitable arm."