“And that as an officer and a gentleman I ought to have knocked Barton down?”
“Something of the kind,” I replied.
“Of course; and then, according to the code of honour among gentlemen, I ought to fight him at daybreak to-morrow morning.”
I was silent.
“Yes,” he said passionately; “that is what you are thinking.”
“I can’t help it,” I cried angrily. “He almost struck you, and the khansamah saw it, and that other man too. It will be all over the place. You must fight him now.”
He looked at me very strangely, and I saw his brows contract as he said gravely—
“Duelling is a thing of the past, Vincent; a cowardly, savage practice in which the life of a man is at the mercy of his skilful adversary. Life is too valuable to throw away in a quarrel. I do not feel as if I had done all my work yet.”
“But what can you do?” I said excitedly, for my brain was in a turmoil. I loved him, but his conduct frightened me; it was so unlike anything I could have expected from a gallant soldier; and there was a singularly cold sensation of dread creeping over me. I felt afraid that I was going to dislike him as one unworthy to be known, as I cried angrily, “But what can you do?”
He looked at me as if he could read me through and through, and his face grew very sad as he replied—