‘Of which, I take it, you are the self-appointed champion. Well, I’m afraid I don’t plead guilty, because, you see, I know myself rather better than you know me. But you came to punish me? Well, again, you see you can’t do that. Shall I give you satisfaction of some sort? There are pistols in that cabinet--shall we shoot at each other across the table? There are rapiers in the cupboard--shall we try to prick each other?’ The young gentleman in the easy-chair grew more and more uncomfortable. He was being made ridiculous, and the man was laughing at him. ‘I have heard of the tricks of foreign duellists,’ he said rudely. Lucian’s face flushed. ‘That was a silly thing to say, my boy,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘Most men would throw you out of the window for it. As it is, I’ll let you off easy. You’ll find some gloves in that cupboard--get them out and take your coat off. I’m not an _Englishman_, as you just now reminded me in very pointed fashion, but I can use my fists.’ Then he took off his dressing-gown and rolled up his sleeves, and the youngster, who had spent many unholy hours in practising the noble art, looked at the poet’s muscles with a knowing eye and realised that he was in for a very pretty scrap. He was a little vain of his own prowess, and fought for all he was worth, but at the end of five minutes he was a well-licked man, and at the expiration of ten was glad to be allowed to put on his coat and go. Lucian flung his gloves into the corner of the room with a hearty curse. He stroked the satiny skin under which his muscle rippled smoothly. He had the arm of a blacksmith, and had always been proud of it. The remark of the drunken man came back to him. That was what they thought of him, was it?--that he was a mere slinger of ink, afraid of spilling his blood or suffering discomfort for the courage of his convictions? Well, they should see. England had gone mad with the lust of blood and domination, and after all he was not her son. He had discharged whatever debt he owed her. To the real England, the true England that had fallen on sleep, he would explain everything, when the awakening came. It would be no crime to shoulder a rifle and strap a bandolier around one’s shoulders in order to help the weak against the strong. He had fought with his pen, taking what he believed to be the right and honest course, in the endeavour to convert people who would not be converted, and who regarded his efforts as evidences of enmity. Very well: there seemed now to be but one straight path, and he would take it. It was remembered afterwards as a great thing in Lucian’s favour that he made no fuss about his next step. He left London very quietly, and no one knew that he was setting out to join the men whom he honestly believed to be fighting for the best principles of liberty and freedom. CHAPTER XXXI