"Not so fast!" exclaimed Fenton, his choler rising. "I don't like your way of doing things, Monsieur Lieutenant. Mademoiselle Petrowa stays where she is!"
Neviloff turned a furious red and took a step closer to Fenton with a threatening gesture. "You foreign pig!" he said through gritted teeth. "Leave while you may with a whole skin. You try my patience much. I shall spit you with my sword if you remain longer in my sight!"
Fenton laughed—a short, ominous laugh.
"You miserable little whipper-snapper!" he said, both fists clenched and itching for action. "If ever let myself go and lay hands on you—— Get out yourself before my patience runs out!"
"If you were of rank to be worth notice," retorted Neviloff with angry contempt, "I would slap you with my glove in the face, and then to-morrow morning I would end your miserable life. But as it is——"
A shrug of his shoulders and a gesture eloquent of his contempt followed. Fenton suddenly lunged forward and seized the officer's arm with a grip that almost paralysed that member. Half leading, half dragging, he propelled the unwilling lieutenant toward his own table. Arriving there, Fenton forced Neviloff down on his chair so hard that it went over backward, taking him with it.
"There," said Fenton. "Now behave!"
Neviloff scrambled to his feet with more expedition than dignity. His face was crimson with wrath and humiliation. With a sudden fury he half drew his sword from its sheath.
"It is too much!" His voice was high and shrill. "I kill you for this. This evening a friend of mine shall wait upon you. To-morrow I shall honour you, pig of a foreigner, by killing you, as I would a gentleman."
"Go as far as you like," said Fenton nonchalantly, turning back.