“There is a surgeon below,” he reported; “he will be with us like winking, for he loves this kind of thing.” “And now the swords,” I said. “We may as well transact preliminaries as far as we can go while waiting.” Pigeon-breast suggested we spin a coin, their weapons or ours. It fell for ours; a good omen, I thought, albeit a look at Noah, where he gazed carelessly from a window, face immovable as granite, gave encouragement enough to declare war for a crown. I went over to tell him we had won the use of our Toledoes. “That sounds well,” he said. “I like good tools, especially when the work demanded leans upon the fine.” “You will not slay the man?” I asked. “For the one matter of his life,” returned Noah, “he's as safe as though this dancing room were a church. Beyond that, however, I shall take such measures with him that, for months, who sees him shall know what reward is waiting on cowards who vilify a pure girl.” Pigeon-breast signaled for a word. Taking me to a remote corner, he argued that our duties required we discuss the possibility of apology. “They must fight a little first,” I retorted. “There is no room between epithets such as 'rogue' and 'liar' to squeeze in an explanation. These folk must fight while both can hold out swords.” This was not butcher's taste; but I began to see with Noah, that the mouths against us must be silenced,--at least the men. We would begin with Catron; we would duel our way through the social register, if need beckoned, to purchase that justice of silence for our Peg. Poor Peg! she was not to lie helpless in every cur's mouth, to be torn at as most pleased his cruelty or best fattened his interest. The more the situation ran before me, the more my breast took fire; I sustained a strict face, however, engaged as I was upon the parade ground of honor and in the service of a gentleman. Still, I said enough, and said it in such fashion that Pigeon-breast, now a little nervous when the actual steel was about to be drawn, saw nothing for it but to bring forward his fellow. This, I admit, he managed in a genteel way; nor did Catron either whiten or lag backward, but stepped to his place as might he who is warm for vengeance. I did not like this Catron's looks; surely the creature was a blackguard with no right to name himself among gentlefolk, only so far as one might lie within the accident of decent birth. But he seemed stout enough of kidney, though that may have grown with a belief in his infallible craft of the sword.