“I weally am quite at a loss, Mistwess O'Gwady, to compwehend—”
Before he could finish his sentence, the dowager had drawn from the depths of her side-pockets a brace of pistols, and presenting them to Furlong, said, “Be at a loss no longer, except the loss of life which may ensue: take your choice of weapons, sir.”
“Gwacious Heaven!” exclaimed Furlong, trembling from head to foot.
“You won't choose, then?” said the dowager. “Well, there's one for you;” and she laid a pistol before him with as courteous a manner as if she were making him a birthday present.
Furlong stared down upon it with a look of horror.
“Now we must toss for choice of ground,” said the dowager. “I have no money about me, for I paid my last half-crown to the post-boy, but this will do as well for a toss as anything else;” and she laid her hands on the dressing-glass as she spoke. “Now the call shall be 'safe,' or 'smash;' whoever calls 'safe,' if the glass comes down unbroken, has the choice, and vice versâ. I call first—'Smash,'” said the dowager, as she flung up the dressing-glass, which fell in shivers on the floor. “I have won,” said she; “oblige me, sir, by standing in that far corner. I have the light in my back—and you will have something else in yours before long; take your ground, sir.”
Furlong, finding himself thus cooped up with a mad woman, in an agony of terror suddenly bethought himself of instances he had heard of escape, under similar circumstances, by coinciding to a certain extent with the views of the insane people, and suggested to the dowager that he hoped she would not insist on a duel without their having a “friend” present.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the old lady: “I quite forgot that form, in the excitement of the moment, though I have not overlooked the necessity altogether, and have come provided with one.”