"You scarcely touched him," scoffed the Gypsy.
Lotzen held up the sword.
"See the red upon the point?" he asked.
"Blood! You actually cut him!" she exclaimed—then pointed her finger at me, derisively. "And you wear a sword!" she sneered.
It was pretty hard to take. But I had a notion, foolish, possibly, to play the game a little longer.
"Come along, my friend," she went on. "This is poor sport. I hate a coward."
For an instant, I feared he would heed her and go—and that would have obliged me to become the aggressor; which I much preferred not to be.
"A coward!" he laughed—and looked at me. "You hear that, monsieur: a coward." Then he put his hand on her arm. "You are quite right, my dear, it is poor sport," he said. "Yet, stay a moment longer. I shall forego the other cuts and tear off his mask, instead."
"And permit him to wear a sword?" she mocked. "Surely, not! Why don't you break it?"
"A charming suggestion—thank you.—You hear my Lady's wish, Monsieur le Coquin," he said to me, and presenting his blade at my breast. "Will you yield your sword or shall I be obliged to take it from you?"