“First blood!” I shouted, as I rushed toward him, intending to pick up his fork and put it back in his hands. But he did not stop to learn my intentions. “First blood!” meant murder to him. I had taken but a step in his direction when he was in full flight. I didn't blame him a bit. I would have fled; any one would have fled. That yell and the prune-juice did it. “Hold on!” I shouted, with a fork in each hand, as I chased him a hundred feet or more down a long aisle lined with the busts of grocers, butchers, brokers, and lumber kings. The words “Hold on!” must have sounded nasty, for he put on more steam. I did not mean to hurt him; I only wished to take his hand and congratulate him on his speed. But I couldn't go fast enough. Before I was half down the aisle he had got to the end of it and jumped over the high shelf between the marble presentments of the missing actress and the Michigan lumber dealer. I knew better than to laugh--it was ill-bred--but I could not help it. Now I could hear the feet of the count hurrying toward me. I ought to have kept still. “We cannot fight with such weapons,” said the baron; “it is barbarous.” “If you will fight me with the sword I shall prove to you my grand courage,” said the young count, as he emerged, panting, from behind a group of statues. “I need no further proof of your courage,” I said, gently. “You act brave enough to suit me.” “Try me with the sword,” he urged. “You are one coward; you are one coward. You have attacka me when the weapon was not in my hand.” Richard came forward coolly and put his hand on the count's arm. “You are wrong, and you ought to apologize,” he said, firmly. The count turned upon him with a polite bow, and said: “Perhaps you will give me the satisfaction.” “If you like, I'll take it up for him,” said Forbes, with admirable coolness. “He is older than you, and not accustomed to the sword.” “Look here--I won't let you fight for me,” I said. “These fellows are used to the sword and pistol. They have nothing else to do and are looking for a sure thing. Fight him with your fists--if he's bound to fight again.” “Him! That would be too sure a thing, I'm afraid,” said Richard. “I've practised this game of fencing at college and the Fencers' Club. I'm not afraid of the count.” I had observed that a number of swords had been lying on a table near us. Before Richard's remark was finished the count had picked up one of them and said to my friend: “Come--you are not fearful--like a lady. Give me one chance.” Before anything more could be done or said the young men were at it, and, to my great relief, I saw that Forbes was able to take care of himself. The count was a clever swordsman, but my friend was stronger and just as quick. It is about the prettiest survival of feudal times, this bloody game of the sword.