_Væ victis_, alas for poor Furibon, where was his boasted skill as a kicker? Why had he not sprung high in air and delivered his unexpected assault? We must say of the _savate_ respectfully, as our Gallic neighbours said of the Balaclava charge, _c'est magnifique, mais ce n'est pas la guerre_. Seated on the floor, the unfortunate Frenchman presented a piteous appearance, as he shed mingled tears of pain and rage, tore his hair, and wiped his cut lip. "_Insolente birbone!_" "_Bestia!_" "_Cane!_" Such were the cries of the dancers on seeing the blow struck, but they were levelled not so much at the assailant as at his victim. In the eyes of the bystanders, Haggard was evidently looked upon as the protector of beauty in distress. But as Valour bore off fainting Beauty, and made his suddenly triumphant exit, everybody's attention was directed to the unhappy Furibon. A gentleman tearing his hair, in the eyes of Italians, is a common, interesting, and dignified object. The cause of this performance is usually romantic, time and place generally appropriate, but Italians do not tear their hair at masked balls. As everywhere else, a foreigner in distress in Rome is looked upon as a grotesque object, and poor Barbiche was no exception to the rule. At first he sat and wept, now he sat and swore, but all the time he tore hard at his hair. Haggard had disappeared with the celerity of a harlequin who jumps through a trap. Lord Spunyarn was somewhat bewildered; he, as a boxer, as an amateur though unsuccessful athlete, knew what a good knock-down blow was; he had seen them delivered, with varying degrees of energy, force, and viciousness, but never in all his lordship's experience till now had he seen a master-stroke which combined all the above qualities in the superlative degree. At last he got poor Furibon upon his legs. The Frenchman carefully felt his front teeth, doubtful if they were still there, then he ceased to swear and to mutter in his own tongue; he ceased to be Furibon, he became once more the correct M. Barbiche of the French Embassy. "Milor, you have seen the insult. Monsieur Haggard takes advantage of his physique, of his brutal boxing skill, to maim me, perhaps, _Mon Dieu_, for life, and to render me an object of contempt and ridicule to these grimacing apes," here he glowered at the laughing crowd. "But, my dear boy, it was your own fault, you know; what did you want to lay hands on the domino for?" "In that there is nothing, Lord Spunyarn. Black dominoes, pink dominoes, blue dominoes. Bah! they are but public property, milor, but I shall teach this Don Quixote a lesson, this chivalrous protector of dominoes. Yes," he added solemnly, as he crossed himself, "please God."