“I do not know where you came from,” I heard the lieutenant say; “but you managed nicely to pick a quarrel.  It is all on your own head.  It is too bad that cur of an Englishman had to run away.”

The innkeeper’s knife was so close that I could feel the point of it against my ribs.  So I gave up the wild idea of yelling from the window that I hadn’t run away.

The lieutenant’s opponent shrugged.  He placed himself on guard; that was his reply.  Suddenly the two sprang forward, and the clash of swords followed.  I could not keep track of the weapons, but I could see that the youngster was holding his own amazingly well.  Neither was touched the first bout.

“Two minutes,” murmured the old rascal at my side.  “It will be over this time.”

“You seem to have a good deal of confidence in your young man,” said I.

“There is not a finer swords—­swordsman in the kingdom, or on the continent, for that matter.  There! they are at it again.”

Step by step the lieutenant gave ground; the clashing had stopped; it was needle-like work now.  Gradually they began to turn around.  The blades flashed in the moonshine like heat lightning.  My pulse attuned itself to every stroke.  I heard a laugh.  It was full of scorn.  The laugh—­it recalled to me a laugh I had heard before.  Evidently the youngster was playing with the veteran.  I became fascinated.  And while the innkeeper and I watched a curious thing happened.  Something seemed to be slipping from the youngster’s head; he tried to put up his free hand, but the lieutenant was making furious passes!  A flood of something dimly yellow suddenly fell about the lad’s shoulders.  Oh, then I knew!  With a snarl of rage I took the inn-keeper by the throat and hurled him, knife and all, to the floor, dashed from the room, thence to the stairs, down which I leaped four at a time.  Quick as I was, I was too late.  The lieutenant’s sword lay on the grass, and he was clasping his shoulder with the sweat of agony on his brow.

“Damnation!” he groaned; “a woman!” Then he tottered and fell in the arms of his subordinate.  He had fainted.

“This will make a pretty story,” cried the young officer, as he laid his superior lengthwise, and tried to staunch the flow of blood.  “Here’s a man who runs away, and lets a woman—­God knows what sort—­fight his duels for him, the cur!”

I never looked at him, but went straight to Gretchen.  Stahlberg gave me a questioning glance, and made a move as though to step between.

“Stand aside, man!” I snapped.  “Gretchen, you have dishonored me.”

“It were better than to bury you”—­lightly.  “I assure you he caused me no little exertion.”

Yet her voice shook, and she shuddered as she cast aside the sword.

“You have made a laughing stock of me.  I am a man, and can fight my own battles,” I said, sternly.  “My God!” breaking down suddenly, “supposing you had been killed?”