“Oh, don’t mind me!” came Sarde’s sarcastic interruption, and both of them turned round, startled, horrified, to face the officer of the guard, visiting round unattended. “You may well start—the pair of you,” said Inspector Sarde, his eyes glittering with rage, then with bitter sarcasm he went on; “A husband’s rights? Moonshine! Myths! Lies! Woman, get back to the fort at once, or I’ll have you arrested for being out of bounds.” “But, Cuthbert,” she pleaded, “you don’t understand. This gentleman—” “Go, I say; go! Leave me to settle with this—this gentleman!” Poor Polly crept away, and the two men watched her in silence until she had turned the corner of the stockade. “Ah!” the Blackguard laid his axe against the wall. “At last!” “And now, mister gentleman, may I venture to ask what you’re doing outside your cell?” “You may.” “Stand to attention; call me ‘sir’ when you address an officer.” “Dear, dear! I would shout, I would screech if I were you. Then everybody will hear.” “The Commissioner shall hear.” “What? That I’m here to defend your wife’s honor, which you have insulted, you—you poached cat!” “Right about turn, quick march for the guard room, or—” “Or what?” The officer was silent. “That’s right. Now be good. I want to point out,” said the Blackguard with yearning sweetness, “that although I am tempted, without witnesses, I have not kicked you. No. I have denied myself even calling you names, you—you mule-foaled outrage on nature’s modesty; you stridulating, splay-footed, pop-eyed mistake of Providence; you supercilious brass-mounted, misdirected Excuse. I will not shock myself by speaking the truth about your appearance, origin, or destiny as a spatchcocked and fried Sin, but I daresay you’ll understand this—” He flicked his glove across the officer’s face, and stood back, smiling blandly. “How dare you!” “With my glove, so—” he struck again, lightly, gracefully, tigerishly. “You see there are the snipers in the hills, taking the pot-shot, eh? which will explain your death, without my inconvenience; eh? It will account for all—we have revolvers—and so! Carramba! What more does the fool want?” “Sir! I’m an officer, a gent—” “Exactly—gent. Something less than a gentleman, eh? Well, I waive that. I waive the matter of rank—I accommodate you with every kindness; eh, what?” Sarde hesitated. “Come, I know you’re a coward, but never mind that. Brace up! You shall be a man for once. There now; at fifteen paces, eh? No? Don’t disappoint me, please,” the Blackguard pleaded. “I spoil for it—I beg you—have you no inside? Are you a shadow in trousers? Nombre de Dios! It’s for your wife’s honor!” “I tell you that officers can’t fight with—”