“Then let one of you draw!” shouted the man. “I see that you are Frenchmen, and I have cut the throat of a good many of your race. Draw, sir, and I shall add you to the Frenchies that I have sent to hell.”
“Nay, sir, I wear spectacles, as you doubtless perceive,” said Baretti. “I do not wish my glasses to be smashed; but my friend here, though a weaker man, may possibly not decline to fight with so contemptible a ruffian as you undoubtedly are.”
He spoke a few words to Nicolo in Italian, and in a second the latter had whisked out his sword and had stepped between Jackson and Baretti, putting quietly aside the fierce lunge which the former made when Baretti had turned partly round.
“Briccone! assassin!” hissed Baretti. “You saw that he meant to kill me, Nicolo,” he said addressing his friend in their own tongue.
“He shall pay for it,” whispered Nicolo, pushing back a chair with his foot until Goldsmith lifted it and several other pieces of furniture out of the way, so as to make a clear space in the room.
“Don't kill him, friend Nicolo,” he cried. “We used to enjoy a sausage or two in the old days at Pisa. You can make sausage-meat of a carcase without absolutely killing the beast.”
The fencing-master smiled grimly, but spoke no word.
Jackson seemed puzzled for a few moments, and Baretti roared with laughter, watching him hang back. The laugh of the Italian—it was not melodious—acted as a goad upon him. He rushed upon Nicolo, trying to beat down his guard, but his antagonist did not yield a single inch. He did not even cease to smile as he parried the attack. His expression resembled that of an indulgent chess player when a lad who has airily offered to play with him opens the game.
After a few minutes' fencing, during which the Italian declined to attack, Jackson drew back and lowered the point of his sword.
“Take a chair, sir,” said Baretti, grinning. “You will have need of one before my friend has finished with you.”