“But you can’t fight a fellow like that, Rockley,” said Sir Harry, who had been summoned to his brother-officer’s room.
“Not fight him? I’ll fight him, and kill him.”
“But he’s only a fiddler.”
“Enough of the gentleman for my purpose, I tell you,” roared Rockley fiercely. “I’ll kill him.”
“Nonsense, man alive. If you must meet, wing him, or pink him, or spoil the blackguard’s good looks. You can’t kill a man!”
“Can’t kill a man!” said the Major, in a low hissing voice; “can’t kill a man!”
“I say, Rockley! Hang it all, don’t look the diabolical like that: you give me the cold shivers. Why, I wouldn’t be called out by you on any consideration.”
“Ha-ha-ha!” laughed Rockley, with a ghastly attempt at mirth. “Did I look queer?”
“Queer? You looked queer multiplied ten thousand times. Why, Rockley, one of you with a face like that would scare a regiment of French cuirassiers. I say, what was the row about—a woman?”
“Curse her!” cried Rockley, flashing out into uncontrolled rage again, as he writhed with mental and bodily pain. “I’ll bring her to her senses for this. Treat me as if I were some gawky boy, to be held off and coaxed on, and then bidden to keep my distance!”