The Prophet resumed in German:  “I said that you were not civil, and I now say you are grossly rude.  What do you answer to that?”

“Nothing!” said Dagobert, coldly, as he proceeded to rinse out another piece of linen.

“Nothing!” returned Morok; “that is very little.  I will be less brief, and tell you, that, when an honest man offers a glass of wine civilly to a stranger, that stranger has no right to answer with insolence, and deserves to be taught manners if he does so.”

Great drops of sweat ran down Dagobert’s forehead and cheeks; his large imperial was incessantly agitated by nervous trembling—­but he restrained himself.  Taking, by two of the corners, the handkerchief which he had just dipped in the water, he shook it, wrung it, and began to hum to himself the burden of the old camp ditty: 

     “Out of Tirlemont’s flea-haunted den,
     We ride forth next day of the sen,
     With sabre in hand, ah! 
     Good-bye to Amanda,” etc.

The silence to which Dagobert had condemned himself, almost choked him; this song afforded him some relief.

Morok, turning towards the spectators, said to them, with an air of hypocritical restraint:  “We knew that the soldiers of Napoleon were pagans, who stabled their horses in churches, and offended the Lord a hundred times a day, and who, for their sins, were justly drowned in the Beresino, like so many Pharaohs; but we did not know that the Lord, to punish these miscreants, had deprived them of courage—­their single gift.  Here is a man, who has insulted, in me, a creature favored by divine grace, and who affects not to understand that I require an apology; or else—­”

“What?” said Dagobert, without looking at the Prophet.

“Or you must give me satisfaction!—­I have already told you that I have seen service.  We shall easily find somewhere a couple of swords, and to morrow morning, at peep of day, we can meet behind a wall, and show the color of our blood—­that is, if you have any in your veins!”

This challenge began to frighten the spectators, who were not prepared for so tragical a conclusion.

“What, fight?—­a very, fine idea!” said one.  “To get yourself both locked up in prison:  the laws against duelling are strict.”

“Particularly with relation to strangers or nondescripts,” added another.  “If they were to find you with arms in your hands, the burgomaster would shut you up in jail, and keep you there two or three months before trial.”

“Would you be so mean as to denounce us?” asked Morok.

“No, certainly not,” cried several; “do as you like.  We are only giving you a friendly piece of advice, by which you may profit, if you think fit.”

“What care I for prison?” exclaimed the Prophet.  “Only give me a couple of swords, and you shall see to-morrow morning if I heed what the burgomaster can do or say.”

“What would you do with two swords?” asked Dagobert, quietly.