“Nay, sir, I wear spectacles, as you doubtless perceive,” said Baretti. “I do not wish my glasses to be smashed; but my friend here, though a weaker man, may possibly not decline to fight with so contemptible a ruffian as you undoubtedly are.” He spoke a few words to Nicolo in Italian, and in a second the latter had whisked out his sword and had stepped between Jackson and Baretti, putting quietly aside the fierce lunge which the former made when Baretti had turned partly round. “Briccone! assassin!” hissed Baretti. “You saw that he meant to kill me, Nicolo,” he said addressing his friend in their own tongue. “He shall pay for it,” whispered Nicolo, pushing back a chair with his foot until Goldsmith lifted it and several other pieces of furniture out of the way, so as to make a clear space in the room. “Don't kill him, friend Nicolo,” he cried. “We used to enjoy a sausage or two in the old days at Pisa. You can make sausage-meat of a carcase without absolutely killing the beast.” The fencing-master smiled grimly, but spoke no word. Jackson seemed puzzled for a few moments, and Baretti roared with laughter, watching him hang back. The laugh of the Italian--it was not melodious--acted as a goad upon him. He rushed upon Nicolo, trying to beat down his guard, but his antagonist did not yield a single inch. He did not even cease to smile as he parried the attack. His expression resembled that of an indulgent chess player when a lad who has airily offered to play with him opens the game. After a few minutes' fencing, during which the Italian declined to attack, Jackson drew back and lowered the point of his sword. “Take a chair, sir,” said Baretti, grinning. “You will have need of one before my friend has finished with you.” Goldsmith said nothing. The man had grossly insulted him the evening before, and he had made Mary Horneck wretched; but he could not taunt him now that he was at the mercy of a master-swordsman. He watched the man breathing hard, and then nerving himself for another attack upon the Italian. Jackson's second attempt to get Nicolo within the range of his sword was no more successful than his first. He was no despicable fencer, but his antagonist could afford to play with him. The sound of his hard breathing was a contrast to the only other sound in the room--the grating of steel against steel. Then the smile upon the sallow face of the fencing-master seemed gradually to vanish. He became more than serious--surely his expression was one of apprehension. Goldsmith became somewhat excited. He grasped Baretti by the arm, as one of Jackson's thrusts passed within half an inch of his antagonist's shoulder, and for the first time Nicolo took a hasty step back, and in doing so barely succeeded in protecting himself against a fierce lunge of the other man.