“When you have one in your grasp, and I one in mine, you’d see.  The Lord commands us to have a care of his honor!”

Dagobert shrugged his shoulders, made a bundle of his linen in his handkerchief, dried his soap, and put it carefully into a little oil-silk bag—­then, whistling his favorite air of Tirlemont, moved to depart.

The Prophet frowned; he began to fear that his challenge would not be accepted.  He advanced a step or so to encounter Dagobert, placed himself before him, as if to intercept his passage, and, folding his arms, and scanning him from head to foot with bitter insolence, said to him:  “So! an old soldier of that arch-robber, Napoleon, is only fit for a washerwoman, and refuses to fight!”

“Yes, he refuses to fight,” answered Dagobert, in a firm voice, but becoming fearfully pale.  Never, perhaps, had the soldier given to his orphan charge such a proof of tenderness and devotion.  For a man of his character to let himself be insulted with impunity, and refuse to fight—­the sacrifice was immense.

“So you are a coward—­you are afraid of me—­and you confess it?”

At these words Dagobert made, as it were, a pull upon himself—­as if a sudden thought had restrained him the moment he was about to rush on the Prophet.  Indeed, he had remembered the two maidens, and the fatal hindrance which a duel, whatever might be the result, would occasion to their journey.  But the impulse of anger, though rapid, had been so significant—­the expression of the stern, pale face, bathed in sweat, was so daunting, that the Prophet and the spectators drew back a step.

Profound silence reigned for some seconds, and then, by a sudden reaction, Dagobert seemed to have gained the general interest.  One of the company said to those near him; “This man is clearly not a coward.”

“Oh, no! certainly not.”

“It sometimes requires more courage to refuse a challenge than to accept one.”

“After all the Prophet was wrong to pick a quarrel about nothing—­and with a stranger, too.”

“Yes, for a stranger, if he fought and was taken up, would have a good long imprisonment.”

“And then, you see,” added another, “he travels with two young girls.  In such a position, ought a man to fight about trifles?  If he should be killed or put in prison, what would become of them, poor children?”

Dagobert turned towards the person who had pronounced these last words.  He saw a stout fellow, with a frank and simple countenance; the soldier offered him his hand, and said with emotion: 

“Thank you, sir.”

The German shook cordially the hand, which Dagobert had proffered, and, holding it still in his own, he added:  “Do one thing, sir—­share a bowl of punch with us.  We will make that mischief-making Prophet acknowledge that he has been too touchy, and he shall drink to your health.”