“Unmask! Unmask! Unmask, or we’ll run ye!” “Willingly,” responded the trembling gentleman from Kent, tugging at the slip-knot in his mask-string. “I am Sir Robin McTart! Who, the devil, are you?” “I am Sir Percy de Bohun!” replied his opponent, as both masks came off at the same instant, and the two confronted one another, staring with four eyes that fairly popped in their sockets. ’Twould be hard to say which of these two was the more astounded, although Sir Percy’s amazement had quite a different flavor from the Baronet’s abject terror. “You! Sir Percy de Bohun!” he quavered, turning ashy pale. “I’ll not believe it. ’Tis a lie!” “You! Sir Robin McTart!” replied Percy, hotly. “Gentlemen,” turning to his friends, “I pray you bear me out in this, not to the exclusion of my challenge of this impostor, which holds good until one or t’other of us sheds blood, but for the preservation of the honor of a valiant gentleman, who is not far off of us now. That this weazen wretch may meet his dues, for not only does he masquerade his face, but seeks to usurp the character and name of one whom we all know to be both handsome, brave and courageous.” Percy’s blood runs high as he speaks these generous words, while every soul about him stands breathless, staring, struck dumb with the singularity of the episode. “But I am Sir Robin McTart,” cries the Baronet, brandishing his weapon with a will, since there is none to oppose him, and the Vicar, now, although well-nigh choked, not above ten yards distant from him. “Tut, tut, Sir, whoever you are,” interposed Lord Escombe. “Your game’s up, and you’d better give your lies a rest.” “Hold!” cries Sir Percy to Robin, “whoever you are, I challenge you to fight me ten minutes hence, yonder in the open, towards the river, and those ten minutes my friends and I’ll spend in calling the actual Sir Robin McTart into your presence, and confronting your impudence with his reality. Lend me your lungs, My Lords and Gentlemen; Sir Robin’s in call somewhere in the Gardens as we all know.” And with one accord the shout went up, ringing up and down the river and far across to the highway, where it caused the horse-patrol to think that every highwayman in the kingdom had broken loose upon Vauxhall, and presently brought them rearing, plunging, swearing, firing, thumping cutlasses right and left, into the midst of the surging thousands, by this all shouting: “Sir Robin McTart! Sir Robin McTart! Sir Robin! Sir Robin! Sir Robin McTart!” at the top of their voices. But for all their bawling, no one answered, no one came, and but one of the vast throng went.