But once more on his feet, Mapleson flew into a white heat of rage.
All his hot Southern blood was up, and he dashed at Geoffrey with blazing eyes, crimson face, and with fists clenched and uplifted as if to smite him to the floor.
But Geoffrey caught him by the wrists, with a grip that rendered him instantly powerless, while he said, with the utmost good nature:
“Mr. Mapleson, you are no match for me; I measured you well before I touched you; my muscles and sinews are like iron from long gymnastic training, so I advise you not to waste your strength. I am sorry to have offended you, but this affair was none of my seeking, and you tried my patience altogether too far. I have simply acted in self-defense.”
But Mapleson had lost his head entirely, and blustered and swore in the most passionate manner, while his comrades were so struck with admiration for Geoffrey and his masterly self-control in the face of such excessive provocation, that not one of them was disposed to meddle in the quarrel.
“Let go! you cold-blooded Yankee!” Everet Mapleson cried, hoarsely, through his tightly locked teeth.
“I will release you, Mapleson, but you must not try the same thing again,” Geoffrey returned, with quiet firmness, and instantly loosed his hold upon the young man’s wrists.
With another violent oath, quick as a flash, and before any one suspected his intention, Mapleson whipped out a pistol from an inner pocket, cocked and pointed it at Geoffrey.
What might have been the result no one can tell, if a young man named Abbott had not dashed forward, and thrown up his arm.
The next instant he had wrenched the weapon from his grasp.