“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.”

Up to this moment the brute-tamer, enraged at the issue of this scene, for he had hoped that the soldier would accept his challenge, looked on with savage contempt at those who had thus sided against him.  But now his features gradually relaxed; and, believing it useful to his projects to hide his disappointment, he walked up to the soldier, and said to him, with a tolerably good grace:  “Well, I give way to these gentlemen.  I own I was wrong.  Your frigid air had wounded me, and I was not master of myself.  I repeat, that I was wrong,” he added, with suppressed vexation; “the Lord commands humility—­and—­I beg your pardon.”

This proof of moderation and regret was highly appreciated and loudly applauded by the spectators.  “He asks your pardon; you cannot expect more, my brave fellow?” said one of them, addressing Dagobert.  “Come, let us all drink together; we make you this offer frankly—­accept it in the same spirit.”

“Yes, yes; accept it, we beg you, in the name of your pretty little girls,” said the stout man, hoping to decide Dagobert by this argument.

“Many thanks, gentlemen,” replied he, touched by the hearty advances of the Germans; “you are very worthy people.  But, when one is treated, he must offer drink in return.”