John Bull entered the Canteen, and 'Erb was forgotten. All near the counter, save the drunken man, watched his approach. He strode straight up to the oar, his eyes fixed on Rivoli.
"I wish to withdraw my challenge to you," he said in a clear voice. "I am not going to fight you after all."
"But, Mother of God, you are!" whispered the drunken man.
"Oho!" roared Rivoli. "Oho!" and exploded with laughter. "Sober to-night are you, English boaster? And how do you know that I will not fight you, flaneur?"
"That rests with you, of course," was the reply.
"Oho, it does, does it, Monsieur Coup Manqué? And suppose I decide not to fight you, but to punish you as little barking dogs should be punished? By the Wounds of God you shall learn a lesson, little vur...."
The drunken man moved, as though to spring to his feet, but the big American's arm flung round him pressed him down, as he lurched his huge body drunkenly against him, pinning him to the table.
"'Ere," expostulated 'Erb. "'E wants ter be sick, I tell yer. Free country ain't it, if 'e is a bloomin' Legendary.... Might as well be a bleed'n drummerdary if 'e carn't be sick w'en 'e wants to.... 'Ope 'e ain't got seven stummicks, eny'ow," he added as an afterthought, and again applied himself to the business of the evening.
John Bull turned, without a word, and left the Canteen. The knot about the bar broke up and Luigi was alone with Madame save for two drunken men and one who was doing his best to achieve that blissful state.
"Have you forgiven me, Beloved of my Soul?" asked Rivoli of Madame, as she mopped the zinc surface of the bar.