“You will not run away?” he asked.

“I shall probably be obliged to run away to-morrow,” said I, smoothly.  “I should not be able to account for your presence here.  But I shall await your return from the barracks, never fear.”  All this was mere bravado; honestly, I shrunk within my clothes and shivered in my shoes.  But I had an unfailing mental nerve.  Some call it bluff.

Gretchen had been whispering to the innkeeper.  When he moved from her side, she was smiling.

“What the deuce is she smiling about?” I wondered.  “Does the woman take me for a modern D’Artagnan?”

“Innkeeper,” said the lieutenant, “if this man is not here when I return, I’ll take satisfaction out of your hide.”

The innkeeper shrugged.  “I have never heard of an Englishman running away.”

“And I have seen many a German do that,” I put in.  “How am I to know that your going to the barracks is not a ruse?”

He gasped.  The words would not come which would do justice to his feelings.  He drew off one of his gloves and threw it into my face.  It stung me.  I should have knocked him down, but for the innkeeper stepping between.

“No, Herr,” he said; “do not disable him.”

“You had best go to the barracks at once,” said I to the lieutenant.  My clothes were too small for me now, and I did not shiver in my shoes.  My “Yankee” blood was up.  I would have fought him with battle axes.

“Herr,” said the innkeeper, when the two had made off for the barracks, “you are a man of courage.”

“Thanks,” said I.

“Do you know anything about rapiers?” he asked.

“I know the handle from the blade; that’s all.  But that does not make any difference.  I’d fight him with any weapon.  He struck me; and then—­then, he kissed Gretchen.”

“I have wiped it off, Herr,” said Gretchen, dryly.  Then she passed from the room.

I went upstairs too.  I looked out of my window.  There was moonlight; possibly the last time I should ever see moonlight in the land of the living.  Nothing but a mishap on my opponent’s part, and that early in the combat, would save my epidermis.  The absurd side of the affair struck me, and I laughed, mirthlessly, but none the less I laughed.  If it had been pistols the chances would have been equal.  A German does not like pistols as a dueling apparatus.  They often miss fire.  A sword is a surer weapon.  And then, the French use them—­the pistols—­in their fiascoes.  Rapiers?  I was as familiar with the rapier as I was with the Zulu assegai.  I unstrapped my traveling case and took out Phyllis’s photograph.  I put it back.  If I was to have a last look at any woman it should be at Gretchen.  Then I got out my cane and practiced thrusting and parrying.  My wrist was strong.

“Well,” I mused, “there’s consolation in knowing that in two hours I shall be either dead or alive.”