“It will be a Stain on my Blood,” said he, “but one good action at the Wars or one Fight on the Counterscarp will wipe that away—”
And he spoke like a Man exalted in his Courage and ready for a Tragic Turn.
Presently the three–Vratz, Stern the German lieutenant, and the Polander–went away, it being then late at Night and Cold.
And before they went the Count gave the Polander the Sword that Mr. Hanson had bestowed Ten Shillings on, and the last that Fellow saw of my Lord was the sight of him in the glimmer of a dying Candle staring after the three of them with a Face very Young, very Ill, very Wild, beneath the tumbled Night Cap.
The three of them went to the Captain’s Lodgings; he lay at the Black Bull in Holborn, in an ill Part of the Town.
Then the Captain called the Polander up to his room and gave him to Drink and after a little said:
“What will You do for Me, George Borosky?”
“Before God, Anything–for the great Gratitude I have to You.”
At this Vratz Laughed and cast off his Hat and Wig and his face was Fresh and Ruddy as a Rose under the Gold of his Hair.
“Look you, Borosky,” he made answer, “there is a Man in London who has put an insult on me–and I did put a Challenge on him by the post having no Gentleman to send, and he returned answer by his Servant that I was not of a Sufficient Quality for a man of his Breeding to fight–and this is a thing difficult to Avenge.”