Dr. Mossy looked up, blushing crimson.

“Bah!” cried the General, still more forcibly.  “Betise!”

“How?” asked the gentle son.

“’Tis all nonsent!” cried the General, bursting into English.  “Hall you ’ave to say is:  ’’Sieur Editeurs!  I want you s’all give de nem of de indignan’ scoundrel who meek some lies on you’ paper about mon Pere et ses amis!”

“Ah-h!” said Dr. Mossy, in a tone of derision and anger.

His father gazed at him in mute astonishment.  He stood beside his disorderly little desk, his small form drawn up, a hand thrust into his breast, and that look of invincibility in his eyes such as blue eyes sometimes surprise us with.

“You want me to fight,” he said.

“My faith!” gasped the General, loosening in all his joints.  “I believe—­you may cut me in pieces if I do not believe you were going to reason it out in the newspaper!  Fight?  If I want you to fight?  Upon my soul, I believe you do not want to fight!”

“No,” said Mossy.

“My God!” whispered the General.  His heart seemed to break.

“Yes,” said the steadily gazing Doctor, his lips trembling as he opened them.  “Yes, your God.  I am afraid”—­

“Afraid!” gasped the General.

“Yes,” rang out the Doctor, “afraid; afraid!  God forbid that I should not be afraid.  But I will tell you what I do not fear—­I do not fear to call your affairs of honor—­murder!”

“My son!” cried the father.

“I retract,” cried the son; “consider it unsaid.  I will never reproach my father.”

“It is well,” said the father.  “I was wrong.  It is my quarrel.  I go to settle it myself.”

Dr. Mossy moved quickly between his father and the door.  General Villivicencio stood before him utterly bowed down.

“What will you?” sadly demanded the old man.

“Papa,” said the son, with much tenderness, “I cannot permit you.  Fifteen years we were strangers, and yesterday were friends.  You must not leave me so.  I will even settle this quarrel for you.  You must let me.  I am pledged to your service.”

The peace-loving little doctor did not mean “to settle,” but “to adjust.”  He felt in an instant that he was misunderstood; yet, as quiet people are apt to do, though not wishing to deceive, he let the misinterpretation stand.  In his embarrassment he did not know with absolute certainty what he should do himself.

The father’s face—­he thought of but one way to settle a quarrel—­began instantly to brighten.  “I would myself do it,” he said, apologetically, “but my friends forbid it.”

“And so do I,” said the Doctor, “but I will go myself now, and will not return until all is finished.  Give me the paper.”

“My son, I do not wish to compel you.”

There was something acid in the Doctor’s smile as he answered: 

“No; but give me the paper, if you please.”