"Surely not!" cried Guillaume; "but I will not permit this duel, which does not befit your years, my cousin! I would prefer to fight in your stead. Come, will you accept my promise? I promise to avenge your brother's death with my own hand if you succeed in proving incontestably that Monsieur D'Alvimar was the dastardly and wicked author thereof. Wait until to-morrow, and I will constitute myself justiciary of my family, as my duty to you demands." Guillaume's impulse was worthy of the marquis's noble heart; but, by letting slip an allusion to his years, Guillaume had mortified him exceedingly. "My cousin," he said, recurring to that puerility of mind which contrasted so strongly with the nobility of his instincts, "you take me for an old _Signor Pantaleone_, with a rusty sword and a trembling hand. Before consigning me to crutches, remember, I beg, the consideration I have shown you, which does not deserve the affront you put upon me by offering to avenge my dearest brother's execrable murder in my stead. Come, it seems to me that we have had words enough, and my patience is exhausted. Your Monsieur de Villareal has more than I, for he listens to all this without finding a word to say." Guillaume saw that matters had gone so far that any reconciliation was impossible; and, as he agreed with the marquis that D'Alvimar had suddenly become much too patient, he turned to him and said sharply: "Come, my dear fellow, why do you not answer, I will not say this challenge, which has no just foundation, but a charge which you surely cannot deserve?" D'Alvimar had reflected during the discussion. He affected a disdainful and satirical calmness. "I accept the challenge, monsieur," he replied, "and I do not think that I deserve great credit for so doing, being, as you know, most expert in the use of all weapons. As for the accusation, it is so absurd and unjust that I am waiting for you yourself to explain it to me before disproving it; for I do not know as yet what the marquis has said to you about me, as he whispered it in your ear, and I desire him to repeat it aloud." "I am quite willing, and it will not take long," retorted Bois-Doré. "I said that you were a brigand, an assassin and a thief. You desire more, but I can find nothing worse to say of you than the bare truth." "You pay me strange compliments, monsieur le marquis!" said the Spaniard coolly. "You have already regaled me, under your own roof, with a lugubrious tale wherein you were pleased to represent me as the slayer of your brother. Whether I am or not, I do not know, as I told you; I simply know that I bade my servant kill a man dressed as a peddler, who was carrying away by force a lady whose defence I took upon myself, as I told you, and whose honor I avenged." "Oho!" cried the marquis, "that is your text now, is it? The lady who was flying with my brother was abducted against her will, and you don't remember saying that she was your----"