"Every word true, my Lord."
"Well, then, why didn't they fight before?"
Joseph looked at me with a curious expression on his face—one rather of disappointment, as if I had utterly failed to grasp his meaning.
"Fight before! It would have been impossible, my Lord. Barsac's honor was at the stake."
"And he must wait fifteen years," I asked with some impatience, "to vindicate it?"
"Certainly, my Lord—or twice that time if it was necessary. It was only when he read in the paper at the table of his breakfast that morning in Basle that he knew."
"What difference did that make?"
"Every difference, my Lord; Madame Mariguy, the mother, was only the day before dead."