"This will make a pretty story," cried the young officer, as he laid his superior lengthwise, and tried to staunch the flow of blood. "Here's a man who runs away, and lets a woman—God knows what sort—fight his duels for him, the cur!"
I never looked at him, but went straight to Gretchen. Stahlberg gave me a questioning glance, and made a move as though to step between.
"Stand aside, man!" I snapped. "Gretchen, you have dishonored me."
"It were better than to bury you"—lightly. "I assure you he caused me no little exertion."
Yet her voice shook, and she shuddered as she cast aside the sword.
"You have made a laughing stock of me. I am a man, and can fight my own battles," I said, sternly. "My God!" breaking down suddenly, "supposing you had been killed?"
"It was not possible. And the man insulted me, not you. A woman? Very well. I can defend myself against everything but calumny. Have I made a laughing stock of you? It is nothing to me. It would not have altered my—"
She was very white, and she stroked her forehead.
"Well?" said I.
"It would not have altered my determination to take the sword in hand again."