“Only fools,” he replied, “take things for granted.  As for discipline, what do you aristocrats, or bourgeois know of discipline?  Have you ever been hungry?  Have you ever had your soul down on its back?”

“Soul on its back?  That is good!”

“A man’s no use,” cried Harz, “if he’s always thinking of what others think; he must stand on his own legs.”

“He must not then consider other people?”

“Not from cowardice anyway.”

Sarelli drank.

“What would you do,” he said, striking his chest, “if you had a devil-here?  Would you go to bed?”

A sort of pity seized on Harz.  He wanted to say something that would be consoling but could find no words; and suddenly he felt disgusted.  What link was there between him and this man; between his love and this man’s love?

“Harz!” muttered Sarelli; “Harz means ‘tar,’ hein?  Your family is not an old one?”

Harz glared, and said:  “My father is a peasant.”

Sarelli lifted the kummel bottle and emptied it into his glass, with a steady hand.

“You’re honest—­and we both have devils.  I forgot; I brought you in to see a picture!”

He threw wide the shutters; the windows were already open, and a rush of air came in.

“Ah!” he said, sniffing, “smells of the earth, nicht wahr, Herr Artist?  You should know—­it belongs to your father....  Come, here’s my picture; a Correggio!  What do you think of it?”

“It is a copy.”

“You think?”

“I know.”

“Then you have given me the lie, Signor,” and drawing out his handkerchief Sarelli flicked it in the painter’s face.

Harz turned white.

“Duelling is a good custom!” said Sarelli.  “I shall have the honour to teach you just this one, unless you are afraid.  Here are pistols—­this room is twenty feet across at least, twenty feet is no bad distance.”

And pulling out a drawer he took two pistols from a case, and put them on the table.

“The light is good—­but perhaps you are afraid.”

“Give me one!” shouted the infuriated painter; “and go to the devil for a fool”

“One moment!” Sarelli murmured:  “I will load them, they are more useful loaded.”

Harz leaned out of the window; his head was in a whirl.  ’What on earth is happening?’ he thought.  ’He’s mad—­or I am!  Confound him!  I’m not going to be killed!’ He turned and went towards the table.  Sarelli’s head was sunk on his arms, he was asleep.  Harz methodically took up the pistols, and put them back into the drawer.  A sound made him turn his head; there stood a tall, strong young woman in a loose gown caught together on her chest.  Her grey eyes glanced from the painter to the bottles, from the bottles to the pistol-case.  A simple reasoning, which struck Harz as comic.

“It is often like this,” she said in the country patois; “der Herr must not be frightened.”