He had to bolster up his anger. "It--it's the other thing you've got to answer for, you--you thief."
Hoshyari's eyes gleamed. "Don't call me that again, Huzoor. I am no thief. I was only--cleverer than other folk."
"I'll call you it ten times over if I choose. Thief! mean, miserable, petty thief."
There was something more savage in the whispered quarrel than if the two had been shouting at each other, and Hoshyari's gasp of rage fell on absolute silence, as, breathing hard, they looked at each other.
Then the Boy passed his hand wearily over his forehead. "No!" he said. "I can't--you're right--I can't kill you like a dog--we must fight it out--there are foils or swords somewhere--foils with the buttons off--where are they?"
His dependence on the elder man showed in his helplessness; he asked as a child might have asked.
There was almost a sob in his throat, but the voice which answered was firm.
"They are on the wall, Huzoor; but we cannot fight here; the sentry would hear, and----"
"D--n the sentry," said the Boy again, helplessly. "What can we do?"
Hoshyari thought for a moment. "There is light enough in the storehouse under the Great Hedge----" he began.