His colour mounted, and I seemed as if I was likely to have a couple of heroes on my hands.  But he compressed his lip, evidently strangled a chivalric speech, and, after a pause to recover his calmness, said—­

“Sir, I have not come here to decide punctilios on either side.  I heartily wish that this affair had not occurred, or could be reconciled; my countrymen here, I know, stand on a delicate footing, and I am perfectly aware of the character that will be fastened on them by the occurrence of such rencontres.  Can you suggest any means by which this difference may be settled at once?”

“None in the world, sir,” was my answer.  “I have told you the fact, that I have no pretension whatever to the lady—­that I am wholly unacquainted even with the person of your friend—­that the idea of intentional injury on my part, therefore, is ridiculous; and let me add, for the benefit of your friend, that to expect an apology for imaginary injuries, would be the most ridiculous part of the entire transaction.”

“What, then, am I to do?” asked the gallant captain, evidently perplexed.  “I really wish that the affair could be got over without fracas.  In fact, though the Jewess is pretty, Lafontaine’s choice does not much gratify any of us.”

“What you ought to do, sir, is sufficiently plain,” said I.  “Go to your friend; if he has brains enough remaining to comprehend the nature of the case, he will send you back with his apology.  If he has not, I shall remain half an hour on the sands until he has made up his mind.”

The captain made me a low bow, and slowly paced back to the lodging of his fiery compatriot.

When I was left alone, I, for the first time, felt the whole ill-luck of my situation.  So long as I was heated by our little dialogue, I thought only of retorting the impertinent interference of a stranger with my motives or actions.  But, now, the whole truth flashed on me with the force of a new faculty.  I saw myself involved in a contest with a fool or a lunatic, in which either of our lives, or both, might be sacrificed—­and for nothing.  Hope, fortune, reputation, perhaps renown, all the prospects of life were opening before me, and I was about to shut the gate with my own hand.  In these thoughts I was still too young for what is called personal peril to intervene.  The graver precaution of more advanced years was entirely out of the question.  I was a soldier, or about to be one; and I would have rejoiced, if the opportunity had been given to me, in heading a forlorn hope, or doing any other of those showy things which make a name.  The war, too, was beginning—­my future regiment was ordered for foreign service—­every heart in England was beating with hope or fear—­every eye of Europe was fixed upon England and Englishmen; and, in the midst of all this high excitement, to fall in a pitiful private quarrel, struck me with a sudden sense of self-contempt and wilful absurdity, that made me almost loathe my being.  I acknowledge that the higher thoughts, which place those rencontres in their most criminal point of view, had then but little influence with me.  But to think that, within the next hour, or the next five minutes, I might be but like the sleepers in the rude resting-place of the fishermen; with my name unknown, and all the associations of life extinguished—­