"Oh, yes; for if La Louve is impudent enough to come to the island when she leaves gaol," added Calabash, who quite understood Nicholas's motive, "I'll serve her out." "And I'll give her a dip in the mud by the hovel at the end of the island," continued Nicholas; "and, if she gets out, I'll give her a few rattlers over the nob with my wooden shoe, the----" This insult addressed to La Louve, whom he loved with savage ardour, triumphed over the pacific resolutions of Martial; he frowned, and the blood mounted to his cheeks, whilst the veins in his brow swelled and distended like cords. Still, he had so much control over himself as to say to Nicholas, in a voice slightly altered by his repressed wrath: "Take care of yourself! You are trying to pick a quarrel, and you will find a bone to pick that will be too tough for you." "A bone for me to pick?" "Yes; and I'll thrash you more soundly than I did last time." "What! Nicholas," said Calabash, with a sardonic grin, "did Martial thrash you? Did you hear that, mother? I'm not astonished that Nicholas is so afraid of him." "He walloped me, because, like a coward, he took me off my guard," exclaimed Nicholas, turning pale with rage. "You lie! You attacked me unexpectedly; I knocked you flat, and then showed you mercy. But if you talk of my mistress,--I say, mind you, of my mistress,--this time I look it over,--you shall carry my marks for many a long day." "And suppose I choose to talk of La Louve?" inquired Calabash. "Why, I'll pull your ears to put you on your guard; and if you begin again, why, so will I." "And suppose I speak of her?" said the widow, slowly. "You?" "Yes,--I!" "You?" said Martial, making a violent effort over himself; "you?" "You'll beat me, too, I suppose,--won't you?" "No; but, if you speak to me unkindly of La Louve, I'll give Nicholas a hiding he shall long remember. So now, mind! It is his affair as well as yours." "You?" exclaimed the ruffian, rising, and drawing his dangerous Spanish knife; "you give me a hiding?" [Illustration: _The Brigand dashed at his brother._ Original Etching by Adrian Marcel.] "Nicholas, no steel!" cried the widow, quickly, leaving her seat, and trying to seize her son's arm; but he, drunk with wine and passion, repulsed his mother savagely, and rushed at his brother. Martial receded rapidly, laid hold of the thick, knotted stick which he had put down by the dresser, as he entered, and betook himself to the defensive. "Nicholas, no steel!" repeated the widow. "Let him alone!" cried Calabash, taking up the ravageur's hatchet. Nicholas, still brandishing his formidable knife, watched for a moment when he could spring on his brother.