The sarcastic meaning was no longer disguised; impudence and bravado were legible in the Prophet’s looks.  Thinking that, with such an adversary, the dispute might become serious, Dagobert, who wished to avoid a quarrel at any price, carried off his tub to the other end of the porch, hoping thus to put an end to the scene which was a sore trial of his temper.  A flash of joy lighted up the tawny eyes of the brute-tamer.  The white circle, which surrounded the pupil seemed to dilate.  He ran his crooked fingers two or three times through his yellow beard, in token of satisfaction; then he advanced slowly towards the soldier, accompanied by several idlers from the common-room.

Notwithstanding his coolness, Dagobert, amazed and incensed at the impudent pertinacity of the Prophet, was at first disposed to break the washing-board on his head; but, remembering the orphans, he thought better of it.

Folding his arms upon his breast, Morok said to him, in a dry and insolent tone:  “It is very certain you are not civil, my man of suds!” Then, turning to the spectators, he continued in German:  “I tell this Frenchman, with his long moustache, that he is not civil.  We shall see what answer he’ll make.  Perhaps it will be necessary to give him a lesson.  Heaven preserve me from quarrels!” he added, with mock compunction; “but the Lord has enlightened me—­I am his creature, and I ought to make his work respected.”

The mystical effrontery of this peroration was quite to the taste of the idlers; the fame of the Prophet had reached Mockern, and, as a performance was expected on the morrow, this prelude much amused the company.  On hearing the insults of his adversary, Dagobert could not help saying in the German language:  “I know German.  Speak in German—­the rest will understand you.”

New spectators now arrived, and joined the first comers; the adventure had become exciting, and a ring was formed around the two persons most concerned.

The Prophet resumed in German:  “I said that you were not civil, and I now say you are grossly rude.  What do you answer to that?”

“Nothing!” said Dagobert, coldly, as he proceeded to rinse out another piece of linen.

“Nothing!” returned Morok; “that is very little.  I will be less brief, and tell you, that, when an honest man offers a glass of wine civilly to a stranger, that stranger has no right to answer with insolence, and deserves to be taught manners if he does so.”

Great drops of sweat ran down Dagobert’s forehead and cheeks; his large imperial was incessantly agitated by nervous trembling—­but he restrained himself.  Taking, by two of the corners, the handkerchief which he had just dipped in the water, he shook it, wrung it, and began to hum to himself the burden of the old camp ditty: 

     “Out of Tirlemont’s flea-haunted den,
     We ride forth next day of the sen,
     With sabre in hand, ah! 
     Good-bye to Amanda,” etc.