“Good-morning, gentleman. I have come to settle an account with you. Before we proceed further will you have the goodness to send your man away?”
For a moment neither replied. Then Galabin said: “We can have nothing more to do with you, Count, and as our servant is busy we cannot interrupt his work.”
Zarka gave a shrug and came two steps into the tent. “As you will. It makes little difference. Last night, Lieutenant Von Tressen,” he continued, keeping back as he spoke the corners of his mouth so that the rows of white teeth seemed to snap out the words as though a wolf had found speech, “you refused to fight me. You will not refuse again.”
The last words were not a question, but the expression of a purpose.
The Lieutenant faced him sternly.
“Indeed I shall,” he retorted. “I have too great a respect for my honour and that of my uniform to meet the man you have shown yourself to be.”
“So!” Zarka snarled. “You refuse finally?”
“Finally.”
“Then I tell you you are a coward!” Von Tressen laughed. “That I will proclaim you a coward all over Europe!” Zarka proceeded, his voice rising with each sentence. “That I will flog you in public whenever I shall meet you. That is nothing to you, my swaggerer, eh?”
“Nothing,” Von Tressen answered quietly, “from the man in Russia’s pay who kidnapped Prince Roel and planned a dastardly outrage on a defenceless lady.”