"Thank God!" piously exclaimed the general. "I had him there; Haggard is the bigger and more powerful man, of that there is no doubt. It shall not be my fault if they don't settle their differences with the longest and heaviest pair of regulation sabres to be had in Rome for love or money. It's quite against the rule, you know, but you say our man is good at single-stick, so he may have the luck to smash him or cut him down before the Frenchman spits him, as he is bound to do if he gets the chance. And I'll tell you what it is, my lord, I'll take a glass of curaçao, for I'm dry with talking." The curaçao was duly brought, and certainly the general deserved it. The experienced warrior had perceived that De Kerguel was bent on mischief, and by his own coyness he had succeeded in beguiling the Frenchman into accepting a weapon of the use of which his principal was probably totally ignorant. The men would then theoretically meet on an equality. But a cavalry sabre is a big and comparatively awkward weapon, and supposing that both were equally unskilled in its use, Haggard, as the taller and stronger man, would certainly have the advantage. Besides this the old general meant it, when he had stated his design to provide a specially heavy pair of weapons. In his great anxiety to secure a meeting at any price, De Kerguel had been compelled to accept the general's ultimatum with regard to weapons, "these or none;" but he knew that his principal thirsted for blood, so he gave way, and it seemed to him at the time that the trifling matter of providing the weapons was of little moment. But ere he reached his friend's hotel he felt that he had been caught napping. Barbiche was extended upon a couch. A huge piece of black court plaister hid the wound on his swollen lip, a cup of _tisane_ stood upon the table. He was dabbing his forehead with toilet vinegar. His head was bound with a scarlet and yellow silk handkerchief which he wore after the manner of a nightcap, as is the custom of his country. As his friend entered he sprang to his feet. "Have you arranged it, De Kerguel? Will he meet me, or are these Englishmen brave only with their fists?" "Do not excite yourself, Emile; you will have need of all your skill, of all your courage." "He will come, then, this protector of the _demi-monde_, this model moral English husband. Say, is it sword or pistols, De Kerguel?" "Ah! my poor Barbiche, I fear that I have, as our American friends say, 'given you away.'" "You don't mean to say that the coward has apologized? This was no case for an apology, De Kerguel, as you know." "I wish it had been," said his friend; "unfortunately you are to fight." Barbiche instantly threw himself into a Napoleonic attitude. Under such circumstances a Frenchman always feels himself a hero, and invariably unconsciously assumes the favourite pose of the Little Corporal. "Yes, you are to fight, my poor friend, but with cavalry sabres."