ly. He passed from street
to street--from gasthaus to gasthaus--everywhere the same dreary
negative; and the day waned, and his search was still unsuccessful. But
he never relaxed; the morning found him still pursuing his inquiries; and
midday saw him at the porte cochere of the Hotel of the Holy Ghost, in
the Rothenthurm Strasse, with his case of duelling pistols in his hand,
his set of rapiers under his arm, and his two pairs of boxing-gloves
slung round his neck.

"Deliver my card immediately to the Comte," said he to the attendant;
"and tell him I am waiting." He had found him out. Luckily, the Comte
de Barbebiche happened to be in the best possible humour when this
message was conveyed to him, having just succeeded in dyeing his
moustache to his entire satisfaction. He glanced at the card--smiled at
himself complacently in the mirror before him, and answered in a gracious
voice, "Let Milor Mountpleasant come up."

Milor was soon heard upon the stairs; and, as he strode into the room, he
flung his set of rapiers with a clatter on the floor, dashed his case of
duelling pistols on the table, and with a dexterous twist sent one pair
of boxing-gloves rolling at the feet of the Comte, while, pulling on the
other, he stood in an attitude of defence before the astonished
Frenchman.

"What is this?" inquired the Comte de Barbebiche.

"This is the alternative," cried the Englishman. "Here are weapons; take
your choice--pistols, rapiers, or the gloves. Fight with one of them you
must and shall, or abandon your claim to Joan of Arc."

"Mon Dieu! What Joan of Arc? I do not have the felicity of knowing the
lady."

"You may see her, Am Graben," gravely replied Milor, "outside a shop
door, done in oil."

"Heh!" exclaimed the astonished Comte, "in oil--an Esquimaux, or a
Tartar, pray?"

"Monsieur le Comte, I want no trifling. Do you persist in the purchase
of this picture? I have set my heart upon it; I love it; I have sworn to
possess it. Make it a matter of money, and I will give you a thousand
pounds for your bargain; make it a matter of dispute, and I will fight
you for it to the death; make it a matter of friendship, and yield up
your right, and I will embrace you as a brother, and be your debtor for
the rest of my life."

The Comte de Barbebiche--seeing that he had to do with an Englishman a
degree, at least, more crazed than the rest of his countrymen--entered
into the spirit of the matter at once, an