“They use it to fight Indians,” said the sculptor.
“They are poisoned,” said the count, as his eye detected some stains on the steel which had been made by the prime-juice.
“I think so,” the other answered, and then, addressing me in English, he asked:
“Will you kindly name the day and hour?”
“Here and now,” was my answer.
Another dialogue in Italian followed, and then De Langueville said to me:
“It is impossible. The count requests for more time.”
“I have no more time to waste on this little matter,” I said. “If he wishes to call it off—” But he didn't—no such luck for me! I had talked too much. The count had taken exception to the words “call it off.” They must have sounded highly insulting, for he flew mad, as they say in Connecticut, and stepped forward with a fine flourish and seized one of the forks. “Call it off” was apparently the one thing which the count could not stand, and I had meant to be careful. His rich Italian blood mounted to his face. I began to like him better.
“I will fight you here and at present if my friend the baron will give to us the permission,” he declared.
“One moment,” said the baron, as he hurried away.