Full of these thoughts the groom of the chamber stalked on to S. Helier.  On reaching the quay, he came to “The White Ship”—­a tavern frequented alike by the officers of the garrison and by those of the island militia.  The parlour was full of men, some in uniform, some in plain clothes, smoking, drinking, playing cards—­a scene of Teniers.  One of the first faces on which his eye fell was that of Le Gallais, who sprang from his chair on Elliot’s entrance, but was restrained by his neighbours, and sat down watching the intruder’s movements with glaring eye.  Striding up to the hearth, and standing with his back to it, the cavalier broke into a forced laugh.

“Strange company you keep, gentlemen.  I spy one among you whom you had better put forth without delay.”

“Whom mean you?” asked the patch-wearing Querto. “’May I not take mine ease in mine inn?’ as the fat fellow says in the play.  May not a plain soldier choose his own company?”

“A soldier is a gentleman, and should keep company with gentlemen,” answered the flushed youth.  “Mr. Le Gallais is no mate for cavaliers.  I say to his face that he is a cropeared rebel, a busybody, and a pestilent knave.”

“I appeal to you, Major Querto,” said Le Gallais, roused from his temporary pause, and turning to the major, whom indeed he had brought to the place, and for whose refreshment he was providing.

“Appeal me no appeals,” said the Major, with a truculent look.  “No man shall appeal to Dick Querto till he is purged of such epitaphs.”

Confusion reigned.  Le Gallais looked about him for a friendly face, and presently saw sympathy on that of a fellow-countryman and brother officer.

“Captain Bisson,” he said, “you will speak to Mr. Elliot’s friend.”

Elliot flung out of the house, followed by Querto and two or three Royalist officers, Le Gallais, and Bisson in the rear.  They walked towards the beach, and on their arriving at the foot of the Gallows Hill—­near where the picquet-house now stands—­an Irish officer came from Elliot’s group and met Bisson, hat in hand.

“Are the gentlemen to fight now?” he asked.

“The sooner the better,” answered Bisson.

“Will it be a pas de deux, or will we all join the dance?”

“Surely, a combat of two,” gravely replied the islander.  “We do not understand Paris fashions here.  With you and me, sir, there need be no quarrel.”

“Sure, and we could have an elegant fight without quarrelling,” muttered the Irishman, with a disappointed frown.  “But ’anything for a quiet life’ is my motto.  This is a mighty fine place, I’m thinking, where two brave fellows can cut each other’s throats in peace and without disturbance.”  Major Querto stood by with the air of an indispensable umpire.

The escrime of those days had not attained its later refinements.  The combatants were placed opposite to each other, each flinging a cloak about his left arm, to serve as a shield, and they prepared to encounter in what would seem a fashion of “rough-and-tumble” to our modern masters.