Meantime Carmichael had found a short hop-pole, and with this he took a hand in the contest.  The pole was clumsy, but the tough wood was stronger than steel.  He hit the saber with good-will.  Back came the steel.  The colonel did not care whom or what he struck at now.  When Carmichael returned the compliment he swung his hop-pole as the old crusaders did their broadswords.  And this made short work of the duel.  The saber dropped uninjured, but the colonel’s arm dangled at his side.  He leaned back against the arbor, his teeth set in his lip, for he was in agony.  Carmichael flung aside his primitive weapon, his anger abated none.

“You’re a fine example of a soldier!  Are you mad to attack a man this way?  They will break you for this, or my name’s not Carmichael.  You couldn’t leave her in peace, could you?  Well, those two kisses will prove expensive.”

“I shall kill you for this!”

“Bah!  I have fought more times than you have years to your counting,” with good Yankee spirit.  “But if you think I’ll waste my time in fighting a duel with you, you’re up the wrong tree.”

“Go to the devil!”

“Not just at present; there’s too much for me to do.  But this is my advice to you:  apply for a leave of absence and take the waters of Wiesbaden.  They are good for choleric dispositions.  Now, I return the compliment:  go to the devil yourself, only choose a route that will not cross mine.  That’s all!”

Gretchen and the vintner had vanished.  Carmichael agreed that it was the best thing for them to do.  The vintner was no coward, but he was discreet.  Somebody might ask questions.  So Carmichael returned to the consulate, equally indifferent what the colonel did or where he went.  Of the vintner he thought:  “The hot-headed young fool, to risk his life like that!” He would see later what he meant in regard to Gretchen.  Poor little goose-girl!  They would find that there was one man interested enough in her welfare to stand by her.  His hands yet stung from the contact of wood against steel, and his hair was damp at the edges.  This was a bit of old war-times.

“Are you hurt, Excellency?” asked the clerk solicitously.

“Hurt?”

“Yes.  I heard a woman scream and ran to the window.  It was a good fight.  But that fellow-ach! To run away and leave you, an outsider, to fight his battle!”

“He would have been sliced in two if I hadn’t come to the front.  A hop-pole isn’t half bad.  I’ll bet that lady’s man has a bad arm for some time to come.  As for the vintner, he had good reasons for taking to his heels.”

“Good reasons?” But there was a sly look in the clerk’s eyes.

“No questions, if you please.  And tell no one, mind, what has taken place.”

“Very well, Excellency.”  And quietly the clerk returned to his table of figures.  But later he intended to write a letter, unsigned, to his serene highness.