He stood up that they might see his size.  Although only a boy in years, he was as large and strong as de Mezy, and his eyes were clearer and his muscles much firmer.  A hum of approval came from the spectators, who now numbered more than a score, but the approval was given for different reasons.  Some, and they belonged to the honnetes gens, were glad to see de Mezy rebuked and hoped that he would be punished; others, the following of Bigot, Cadet, Pean and their corrupt crowd, were eager to see the Bostonnais suffer for his insolence to one of their number.  But most of them, both the French of old France and the French of Canada, chivalric of heart, were resolved to see fair play.

Monsieur Berryer shrugged his shoulders, but made no protest.  The affair to his mind managed itself very well.  There had been none of the violence that he had apprehended.  The quarrel evidently was one of gentlemen, carried out in due fashion, and the shedding of blood would occur in the proper place and not in his inn.  And yet it would be an advertisement.  Men would come to point out where de Mezy had sat, and where the young Bostonnais had sat, and to recount the words that each had said.  And then the red wine and the white wine would flow freely.  Oh, yes, the affair was managing itself very well indeed, and the thrifty Monsieur Berryer rubbed his hands together with satisfaction.

“We have beds here at the Inn of the Eagle,” said Robert coolly—­he was growing more and more the master of speech; “you can send your seconds this evening to see mine, and they will arrange everything, although I tell you now that I choose small swords.  I hope my choice suits you.”

“It is what I would have selected myself,” said de Mezy, giving his antagonist a stare of curiosity.  Such coolness, such effrontery, as he would have called it, was not customary in one so young, and in an American too, because Americans did not give much attention to the study of the sword.  New thoughts raced through his head.  Could it be possible that here, where one least expected it, was some marvelous swordsman, a phenomenon?  Did that account for his indifference?  A slight shudder passed over the frame of Jean de Mezy, who loved his dissolute life.  But such thoughts vanished quickly.  It could not be possible.  The confidence of the young Bostonnais came from ignorance.

Robert had seen de Mezy’s face fall, and he was confirmed in the course that he had chosen already.

“Gusgaesata,” he said to Tayoga in Iroquois.

“Ah, the deer buttons!” the Onondaga said in English, then repeating it in French.

“You will pardon us,” said Robert carelessly to de Mezy, “but Tayoga, who by the way is of the most ancient blood of the Onondagas, and I often play a game of ours after dinner.”

His manner was that of dismissal, and the red in de Mezy’s cheeks again turned to purple.  Worst of all, the little dart of terror stabbed once more at his heart.  The youth might really be the dreaded marvel with the sword.  Such coolness in one so young at such a time could come only from abnormal causes.  Although he felt himself dismissed he refused to go away and his satellites remained with him.  They would see what the two youths meant to do.