man, every sinew
was like iron wire: his whole weight resting on his left hip, the long
arm--on which, in sailor fashion, a red cross, three lilies, and other
marks, were tattooed--held out before him, and the cunning, murderous
gaze rivetted on his adversary.

''Twill be but a mere scratch,' said one of the three friends to me. I
made no reply, but was convinced beforehand that my captain, who was
an old practitioner, would treat the matter more seriously. Young
L----, whose perfumed coat was lying near, appeared to me to be
already given over to corruption. He began the attack, advancing
quickly. This confirmed me in my opinion; for although he might be a
practised fencer in the schools, this was proof that he could not
frequently have been engaged in serious combat, or he would not have
rushed forwards so incautiously against an adversary whom he did not
as yet know. His opponent profited by his ardour, and retired step by
step, and at first only with an occasional ward and half thrust. Young
L----, getting hotter and hotter, grew flurried; while every ward of
his adversary proclaimed, by its force and exactness, the master of
the art of fence. At length the young man made a lunge; the captain
parried it with a powerful movement, and, before L---- could recover
his position, made a thrust in return, his whole body falling forward
as he did so, exactly like a picture at the Academie des Armes--'the
hand elevated, the leg stretched out'--and his sword went through his
antagonist, for nearly half its length, just under the shoulder. The
captain made an almost imperceptible turn with his hand, and in an
instant was again _en garde_. L---- felt himself wounded; he let his
sword fall, while with his other hand he pressed his side; his eyes
grew dim, and he sank into the arms of his friends. The captain wiped
his sword carefully, gave it to me, and dressed himself with the most
perfect composure. 'I have the honour to wish you good-morning,
gentlemen: had you not sung yesterday, you would not have had to weep
to-day;' and thus saying, he went towards his boat. ''Tis the
seventeenth!' he murmured; 'but this was easy work--a mere greenhorn
from the fencing-schools of Paris. 'Twas a very different thing when I
had to do with the old Bonapartist officers, those brigands of the
Loire.' But it is quite impossible to translate into another language
the fierce energy of this speech. Arrived at the port, he threw the
boatman a few