The silence to which Dagobert had condemned himself, almost choked him; this song afforded him some relief.

Morok, turning towards the spectators, said to them, with an air of hypocritical restraint:  “We knew that the soldiers of Napoleon were pagans, who stabled their horses in churches, and offended the Lord a hundred times a day, and who, for their sins, were justly drowned in the Beresino, like so many Pharaohs; but we did not know that the Lord, to punish these miscreants, had deprived them of courage—­their single gift.  Here is a man, who has insulted, in me, a creature favored by divine grace, and who affects not to understand that I require an apology; or else—­”

“What?” said Dagobert, without looking at the Prophet.

“Or you must give me satisfaction!—­I have already told you that I have seen service.  We shall easily find somewhere a couple of swords, and to morrow morning, at peep of day, we can meet behind a wall, and show the color of our blood—­that is, if you have any in your veins!”

This challenge began to frighten the spectators, who were not prepared for so tragical a conclusion.

“What, fight?—­a very, fine idea!” said one.  “To get yourself both locked up in prison:  the laws against duelling are strict.”

“Particularly with relation to strangers or nondescripts,” added another.  “If they were to find you with arms in your hands, the burgomaster would shut you up in jail, and keep you there two or three months before trial.”

“Would you be so mean as to denounce us?” asked Morok.

“No, certainly not,” cried several; “do as you like.  We are only giving you a friendly piece of advice, by which you may profit, if you think fit.”

“What care I for prison?” exclaimed the Prophet.  “Only give me a couple of swords, and you shall see to-morrow morning if I heed what the burgomaster can do or say.”

“What would you do with two swords?” asked Dagobert, quietly.

“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.