The shopman recovered himself from a stunning surprise and burst out: 

“Gentlemen, are you drunk?  A duel!  A duel in my garden.  Go home, gentlemen, go home.  Why, what did you quarrel about?”

“We quarrelled,” said Evan, in the same dead voice, “about religion.”  The fat shopkeeper rolled about in his chair with enjoyment.

“Well, this is a funny game,” he said.  “So you want to commit murder on behalf of religion.  Well, well my religion is a little respect for humanity, and——­”

“Excuse me,” cut in Turnbull, suddenly and fiercely, pointing towards the pawnbroker’s next door.  “Don’t you own that shop?”

“Why—­er—­yes,” said Gordon.

“And don’t you own that shop?” repeated the secularist, pointing backward to the pornographic bookseller.

“What if I do?”

“Why, then,” cried Turnbull, with grating contempt.  “I will leave the religion of humanity confidently in your hands; but I am sorry I troubled you about such a thing as honour.  Look here, my man.  I do believe in humanity.  I do believe in liberty.  My father died for it under the swords of the Yeomanry.  I am going to die for it, if need be, under that sword on your counter.  But if there is one sight that makes me doubt it it is your foul fat face.  It is hard to believe you were not meant to be ruled like a dog or killed like a cockroach.  Don’t try your slave’s philosophy on me.  We are going to fight, and we are going to fight in your garden, with your swords.  Be still!  Raise your voice above a whisper, and I run you through the body.”

Turnbull put the bright point of the sword against the gay waistcoat of the dealer, who stood choking with rage and fear, and an astonishment so crushing as to be greater than either.

“MacIan,” said Turnbull, falling almost into the familiar tone of a business partner, “MacIan, tie up this fellow and put a gag in his mouth.  Be still, I say, or I kill you where you stand.”

The man was too frightened to scream, but he struggled wildly, while Evan MacIan, whose long, lean hands were unusually powerful, tightened some old curtain cords round him, strapped a rope gag in his mouth and rolled him on his back on the floor.

“There’s nothing very strong here,” said Evan, looking about him.  “I’m afraid he’ll work through that gag in half an hour or so.”

“Yes,” said Turnbull, “but one of us will be killed by that time.”

“Well, let’s hope so,” said the Highlander, glancing doubtfully at the squirming thing on the floor.

“And now,” said Turnbull, twirling his fiery moustache and fingering his sword, “let us go into the garden.  What an exquisite summer evening!”

MacIan said nothing, but lifting his sword from the counter went out into the sun.

The brilliant light ran along the blades, filling the channels of them with white fire; the combatants stuck their swords in the turf and took off their hats, coats, waistcoats, and boots.  Evan said a short Latin prayer to himself, during which Turnbull made something of a parade of lighting a cigarette which he flung away the instant after, when he saw MacIan apparently standing ready.  Yet MacIan was not exactly ready.  He stood staring like a man stricken with a trance.