“Because if you did I should have to slap your face just now.”
“Mein Gott! You—!”
“Not so loud,” said Romayne quietly, “unless you prefer an audience.”
“You schlap my face!” cried the German, in his rage losing perfect control of his accent. “Ach, if you were only in my country, we could settle this in the only way.”
“Perhaps you will answer my question.” Romayne's voice was low and clear and very hard. “Did you mean to call me a liar? Yes or no.”
“A liar,” replied the German, speaking more quietly. “No, it is not a question of veracity. It is a question of historical accuracy.”
“Oh, very well. That's all.”
“No, it is not all,” exclaimed the German. “My God, that I should have to take insult from you! In this country of barbarians there is no way of satisfaction except by the beastly, the savage method of fists, but some day we will show you schwein of England—”
“Stop!” Romayne's voice came across the water with a sharp ring like the tap of a hammer on steel. “You cannot use your hands, I suppose? That saves you, but if you say any such words again in regard to England or Englishmen, I shall have to punish you.”
“Punish me!” shouted the German. “Gott in Himmel, that I must bear this!”