een more
factitious than sincere. The moment was decisive. It was necessary to
strike an immediate blow, and to raise the spirits of the guests, for
many pretty rosy faces began to grow pale, many scarlet ears became
suddenly white; Ninny Moulin's were of the number.

On the contrary, Sleepinbuff exhibited an increase of audacity; he drew
up his figure, bent down from the effects of exhaustion, and, with a
cheek slightly flushed, he exclaimed: "Well, waiter? are those bottles
of brandy coming? And the punch? Devil and all! are the dead to frighten
the living?"

"He's right! Down with sorrow, and let's have the punch!" cried several
of the guests, who felt the necessity of reviving their courage.

"Forward, punch!"

"Begone, dull care!"

"Jollity forever!"

"Gentlemen, here is the punch," said a waiter, opening the door. At
sight of the flaming beverage, which was to reanimate their enfeebled
spirits, the room rang with the loudest applause.

The sun had just set. The room was large, being capable of dining a
hundred guests; and the windows were few, narrow, and half veiled by red
cotton curtains. Though it was not yet night, some portions of this vast
saloon were almost entirely dark. Two waiters brought the monster-punch,
in an immense brass kettle, brilliant as gold, suspended from an iron
bar, and crowned with flames of changing color. The burning beverage was
then placed upon the table, to the great joy of the guests, who began to
forget their past alarms.

"Now," said Jacques to Morok, in a taunting tone, "while the punch is
burning, we will have our duel. The company shall judge." Then, pointing
to the two bottles of brandy, which the waiter had brought, Jacques
added: "Choose your weapon!"

"Do you choose," answered Morok.

"Well! here's your bottle--and here's your glass. Ninny Moulin shall be
umpire."

"I do not refuse to be judge of the field," answered the religious
writer, "only I must warn you, comrade, that you are playing a desperate
game, and that just now, as one of these gentlemen has said, the neck
of a bottle of brandy in one's mouth, is perhaps more dangerous than the
barrel of a loaded pistol."

"Give the word, old fellow!" said Jacques, interrupting Ninny Moulin,
"or I will give it myself."

"Since you will have it so--so be it!"

"The first who gives in is conquered," said Jacques.

"Agreed!" answered Morok.

"Come, gentlemen, attention! we must follow every movement," resum