The night outside was cold.  While the stranger and I sat before the fire we caught its infectious warmth, and when he showed a disposition to talk, I gladly fell in with his humor.  Soon we were filling our glasses from the same bowl of punch, and we seemed to be on good terms with each other.  But when God breathed into the human body a part of himself, by some mischance He permitted the devil to slip into the tongue and loosen it.  My tongue, which ordinarily was fairly well behaved, upon this occasion quickly brought me into trouble.

I told you that the stranger and I seemed to be upon good terms.  And so we were until I, forgetting for the moment Elizabeth’s hatred of Mary’s friends, and hoping to learn the stranger’s name and quality, said:—­

“My name is Vernon—­Sir Malcolm Vernon, knight by the hand of Queen Mary of Scotland and of France.”  This remark, of course, required that my companion should in return make known his name and degree; but in place of so doing he at once drew away from me and sat in silence.  I was older than he, and it had seemed to me quite proper and right that I should make the first advance.  But instantly after I had spoken I regretted my words.  I remembered not only my danger, being a Scottish refugee, but I also bethought me that I had betrayed myself.  Aside from those causes of uneasiness, the stranger’s conduct was an insult which I was in duty bound not to overlook.  Neither was I inclined to do so, for I loved to fight.  In truth, I loved all things evil.

“I regret, sir,” said I, after a moment or two of embarrassing silence, “having imparted information that seems to annoy you.  The Vernons, whom you may not know, are your equals in blood, it matters not who you are.”

“I know of the Vernons,” he replied coldly, “and I well know that they are of good blood and lineage.  As for wealth, I am told Sir George could easily buy the estates of any six men in Derbyshire.”

“You know Sir George?” I asked despite myself.

“I do not know him, I am glad to say,” returned the stranger.

“By God, sir, you shall answer-”

“At your pleasure, Sir Malcolm.”

“My pleasure is now,” I retorted eagerly.

I threw off my doublet and pushed the table and chairs against the wall to make room for the fight; but the stranger, who had not drawn his sword, said:—­

“I have eaten nothing since morning, and I am as hungry as a wolf.  I would prefer to fight after supper; but if you insist—­”

“I do insist,” I replied.  “Perhaps you will not care for supper when I have—­”

“That may be true,” he interrupted; “but before we begin I think it right to tell you, without at all meaning to boast of my skill, that I can kill you if I wish to do so.  Therefore you must see that the result of our fight will be disagreeable to you in any case.  You will die, or you will owe me your life.”

His cool impertinence angered me beyond endurance.  He to speak of killing me, one of the best swordsmen in France, where the art of sword-play is really an art!  The English are but bunglers with a gentleman’s blade, and should restrict themselves to pike and quarterstaff.