The sword is a serpent, its bite is mortal. It makes one liable, in using it for a futile cause in a duel, to kill a brave man. The sabre, on the contrary, only makes large wounds which it is easy to heal, and which nearly always it is possible to graduate according to the gravity of the offence received, without risking the life of one's adversary. The two men, as we have said, had put themselves on their guard. After another bow, the combat commenced, and they exchanged a few passes, mutually feeling their way, as it were, and only using their weapons with extreme prudence. The Spanish officer was what may be called a good duellist. With a somewhat effeminate appearance, he had a wrist of iron and muscles of steel. His style of fencing was broad and elegant; he appeared to handle his weapon, which was rather heavy, as if he had had a mere reed in his hand. The style of the French painter was more compact, more nervous, his blows, more unforeseen, and certainly more rapid. However, the combat did not last long, before it was easy to see with whom would rest the victory. On a sudden, the sabre of the captain leaped into the air, carried away as if by a sling, and fell at a great distance off. The Frenchman darted off immediately, picked up his adversary's weapon, and presenting it to him: "Pardon me, Señor," he said, "and be so good, I beg you, to resume a weapon which you use so well. I have only taken it from you by surprise, and I remain at your orders." "Señor," answered the captain, putting his sabre in the scabbard, "I have merited the lesson that you have given me. Ten times you have had my life in your hands without wishing to take advantage of it. Our combat is finished. I acknowledge myself vanquished, more even by your courtesy than by your skill in the management of arms." "I do not admit, caballero," pursued the painter, "that any but trifling credit is due to me for the advantage that chance alone has given me over you." "Go in peace, wherever it may appear good to you, as well as your companions, Señor. You have no insult to fear from us; only I do not consider myself quit of you. My name is Don Lucio Ortega, remember that name. In any circumstances in which you may find yourself, if you have need of me, be it twenty years hence, boldly ask your old adversary and friend." "I really do not know how to thank you, Señor. I am but a poor French painter, named Émile Gagnepain; but if the opportunity ever presents itself, I shall be happy to prove how much I value the sentiments of goodwill that you manifest towards me." After this mutual exchange of courtesy, the two men mounted on horseback.