And as such the Cavalier conceived, or misconceived, it, crying out,—
“Draw, caitiff! Defend yourself, if you don’t want me to kill you in cold blood!”
“Ha-ha-ha!” laughed the other, lightly and satirically. “It’s just because I don’t want to kill you in cold blood that I hesitate baring my blade.”
“A subterfuge—a lie!” shouted the youth, stung to madness by the implied taunt of his inferiority. “Do your best and worst. Draw, sirrah, or I’ll run you through. Draw, I say!”
“Oh, don’t be in such a hurry. If I must I must, and, to oblige you, will, though it dislikes me to do murder—all the more that you’ve a spark of spirit. But—”
“Do it if you can,” interrupted the Cavalier, unheeding the compliment. “I’ve no fear of your murdering me. Maybe the boot will be on the other leg.”
Again that strange expression came over the face of the older man, half-admiration, half-compassion, with a scarce discernible element of anger in it. Even yet he appeared reluctant to draw his sword, and only did so when the opprobrious epithet Lâche—for the Cavaliers spoke a smattering of French—was flung into his teeth by his now furious antagonist. At this, unsheathing, he called out,—
“Your blood be on your own head. To guard!”
“For God and the King!” cried the challenger, as he tightened grasp on hilt and rein, setting himself firmly in the saddle.
“For God and the People!” followed the response antagonistic.