“Confound you, Bab!” exclaimed the bleeding and breathless rebel. “Confound you for a Spoilsport! Why don’t you let me pound your gentle husband to a jelly!”
“What, pound my gentle husband?” says I, “a pretty wife I’d be, I’m thinking.”
For an instant this way of looking at the matter administered a check to his impetuosity, and by its aid I took occasion to beseech:
“My lad, if you care for your life at all, go while the door is open to you. Another blow will close it; aye, perhaps another word. Go, I implore you.”
“No,” says he, doggedly, “for the finest woman in all England I will not go. Things have gone too far. Would you have me leave you at the mercy of this nice gentleman? Let me kill him first, and then we will talk about it.”
He was quite cool now, and in full possession of the arrogant decision that seemed such an embellishment to his character. Therefore he stepped to the windows at the far end of the apartment, pulled aside the curtains, and looked into the night. Immediately the white moonlight fell upon the deeper pallor of his face.
“See,” says he, turning to his enemy, “there’s light enough outside to settle our little controversy. Swords or pistols, sir?”
“Boots,” says the Captain, amiably; “I don’t fight with boys; I usually kick them.”
“Well, sir,” says the lad, “my situation is peculiar. I am your prisoner, and at liberty on parole, but I ask you as a gentleman whether it is likely that I shall swallow the insults of a private person! What is your opinion, madam?”
This was intended for diplomacy. It was plain that he wished me to induce the Captain to fight, but the risks of that course appeared too terrible by far for me to seize the opportunity.