“Well!” we both exclaimed.
“He names pistols.”
“What?” I cried. Carl laughed suddenly. We had never thought of such a thing. Duelling with pistols is forbidden. It is never dreamt of among German students.
“Ah—all right!” said Carl. “If he wishes it.”
I at once wrote a note to Smallie, telling him that the thing was impossible. My messenger was sent back without an answer. I wrote, offering to fight Carl myself with the usual light sword or the sabre, in his name and for him. To this I received no answer. I went round to his rooms and was refused admittance.
The next morning at five—before it was light—Carl and I started off on foot for a little forest down by the river. At six o'clock Andrew Smallie arrived. He was accompanied by an Einjahriger—a German who had lived in England before he came home to serve his year in the army.
We did not know much about it. Carl laughed as I put him in position. The fresh pink of his cheek—like the complexion of a healthy girl—never faded for a moment.
“When I've done with him,” cried Smallie, “I'll fight you.”
We placed our men. The German soldier gave the word. Carl von Mendebach went down heavily.
He was still smiling—with a strange surprise on his simple face.