“Well?” said the small fighter, brandishing his wooden weapon.

“Excuse me,” repeated MacIan, “but was that what you were doing at the door?”

The little man stared an instant and then said:  “Yes,” and Turnbull broke into a guffaw.

“Come on!” cried the little man, tucking his stick under his arm and taking quite suddenly to his heels.  “Come on!  Confound me, I’ll see both of you eat and then I’ll see one of you die.  Lord bless me, the gods must exist after all—­they have sent me one of my day-dreams!  Lord!  A duel!”

He had gone flying along a winding path between the borders of the kitchen garden, and in the increasing twilight he was as hard to follow as a flying hare.  But at length the path after many twists betrayed its purpose and led abruptly up two or three steps to the door of a tiny but very clean cottage.  There was nothing about the outside to distinguish it from other cottages, except indeed its ominous cleanliness and one thing that was out of all the custom and tradition of all cottages under the sun.  In the middle of the little garden among the stocks and marigolds there surged up in shapeless stone a South Sea Island idol.  There was something gross and even evil in that eyeless and alien god among the most innocent of the English flowers.

“Come in!” cried the creature again.  “Come in! it’s better inside!”

Whether or no it was better inside it was at least a surprise.  The moment the two duellists had pushed open the door of that inoffensive, whitewashed cottage they found that its interior was lined with fiery gold.  It was like stepping into a chamber in the Arabian Nights.  The door that closed behind them shut out England and all the energies of the West.  The ornaments that shone and shimmered on every side of them were subtly mixed from many periods and lands, but were all oriental.  Cruel Assyrian bas-reliefs ran along the sides of the passage; cruel Turkish swords and daggers glinted above and below them; the two were separated by ages and fallen civilizations.  Yet they seemed to sympathize since they were both harmonious and both merciless.  The house seemed to consist of chamber within chamber and created that impression as of a dream which belongs also to the Arabian Nights themselves.  The innermost room of all was like the inside of a jewel.  The little man who owned it all threw himself on a heap of scarlet and golden cushions and struck his hands together.  A negro in a white robe and turban appeared suddenly and silently behind them.

“Selim,” said the host, “these two gentlemen are staying with me tonight.  Send up the very best wine and dinner at once.  And Selim, one of these gentlemen will probably die tomorrow.  Make arrangements, please.”

The negro bowed and withdrew.

Evan MacIan came out the next morning into the little garden to a fresh silver day, his long face looking more austere than ever in that cold light, his eyelids a little heavy.  He carried one of the swords.  Turnbull was in the little house behind him, demolishing the end of an early breakfast and humming a tune to himself, which could be heard through the open window.  A moment or two later he leapt to his feet and came out into the sunlight, still munching toast, his own sword stuck under his arm like a walking-stick.