Robert Lange, a quiet, inoffensive Breton with a quenchless hatred of the English, and a reputed athlete, at once accepted the challenge, especially as the (to him) enormous prize of twenty guineas was being offered. The day appointed for the contest came. Great preparations had been made on the poop of the _Crown_ for the reception of the fashionable company invited to assist at the spectacle of Colonel S——‘s black knocking out in the first round, and probably killing, a Frenchman. Colonel S—— arrived, and with him Little White and the big dog, and flotillas of boats brought out the company, largely consisting of ladies, ‘parées avec ce luxe éclatant et de mauvais goût si essentiellement britannique,’ who settled themselves on the stand rigged up for the occasion, in laughing and chattering anticipation of something funny. Robert Lange was playing cards below when he was told that the entertainment was only wanting him. Very coolly he sent word back that he would come as soon as he had finished his hand, and nothing would induce him to hurry. Captain R—— wanted to put Lange into the _cachot_ at once for this impertinence, but Colonel S—— calmed him by assuring him that it was the custom in England to grant any indulgence to a man condemned to die. Meanwhile Little White divested himself of his gorgeous flunkey dress, and the appearance of his magnificent physique caused a chorus of admiration for him, and of pity for the presumptuous Frenchman, to burst from the company. In due course Robert Lange slouched up, his hands in his pockets, a pipe in his mouth, and his cotton cap on the back of his head. His appearance brought out a murmur of disappointment from the visitors, who considered they were being made the victims of one of Colonel S——‘s famous hoaxes. The murmurs turned to smiles when Robert confessed ignorance about seconds, and asked what a watch was wanted for. However, these things being explained to him, he chose Garneray and a fellow Breton as seconds, told Garneray to pocket the magnificent watch which the Colonel offered him, said he was ready for the dance to begin, and placed himself in a fighting position which occasioned roars of laughter from the polite crowd. ‘I’m beginning to lose my temper at the mockery of these fools,’ said Lange to Garneray; ‘what are they waiting for?’ ‘Colonel,’ said Garneray, ‘my man is ready. May we begin?’ ‘There is just one formality customary on these occasions,’ replied the Colonel. ‘The combatants ought to shake hands to show there is no ill-feeling between them.’ The big black thrust forward his hand saying, ‘Shake my hand with respect. It has bowled over many a Frenchman.’ At this gratuitous insult, which the English applauded, a thrill of indignation agitated the crowd of French prisoners. ‘What does this chap say?’ asked Lange of Garneray.