“Captain Muller,” he said, “I hear that you have made a boast that you will kill the first officer of my regiment whom you met.  I am, I think, the first, and you have now the opportunity of proving whether you are a mere cutthroat, or a liar.”

A perfect gasp of astonishment was heard in the room.  Dillon leapt to his feet, exclaiming, “No, Rupert, I will not allow it!  I am your senior officer.”

And the gallant fellow would have pushed forward, had not Lord Fairholm put his hand on his shoulder and forced him back, saying: 

“Leave him alone; he knows what he is doing.”

The German took a step back, with a hoarse exclamation of rage and surprise at Rupert’s address, and put his hand to his sword.  Then, making a great effort to master his fury, he said: 

“You are safe in crowing loud, little cockerel; but Captain Muller does not fight with boys.”

A murmur of approval ran round the room; for the prospect of this lad standing up to be killed by so noted a swordsman was painful alike to the German and English officers present.

“The same spirit appears to animate you and your friend Sir Richard Fulke,” Rupert said quietly.  “He did not care about fighting a boy, and so employed a dozen of his soldiers to murder him.”

“It is a lie!” the captain thundered, “Beware, young sir, how you tempt me too far.”

“You know it is not a lie,” Rupert said calmly.  “I know he told you he was afraid to fight me, for that I was more than his match; and it seems to me, sir, that this seeming pity for my youth is a mere cover of the fact that you would rather choose as your victim someone less skilled in fence than I happen to be.  Are you a coward, too, sir, as well as a ruffian?”

“Enough!” the German gasped.

“Swartzberg,” he said, turning to his friend, “make the arrangements; for I vow I will kill this insolent puppy in the morning.”

Lord Fairholm at once stepped forward to the Hessian captain.

“I shall have the honour to act as Mr. Holliday’s second.  Here is my card.  I shall be at home all the evening.”

Rupert now resumed his seat, while Captain Muller and his friend moved to the other end of the saloon.  Here he was surrounded by a number of German officers, who endeavoured to dissuade him from fighting a duel in which the killing of his adversary would be condemned by the whole army as child murder.

“Child or not,” he said ferociously, “he dies tomorrow.  You think he was mad to insult me.  It was conceit, not madness.  His head is turned; a fencing master once praised his skill at fence, and he thinks himself a match for me—­me! the best swordsman, though I say it, in the German army.  No, I would not have forced a quarrel on him, for he is beneath my notice; but I am right glad that he has taken up the glove I meant to throw down to his fellow.  In killing him I shall not only have punished the only person who has for many years ventured to insult Otto Muller, but I shall have done a service to a friend.”