"You think the man will need a spur?" says he.
"I do, indeed," says I, "and one both sharp and covert."
"I have here the very thing," says he. Upon the word he fumbled in his skirts, and presently produced a little leather case therefrom. Plucking off the top, he showed me that a small venomous stiletto lay twinkling in it. As you may suppose I took several seconds to recover my breath, then cried:
"What, you bloody-handed rogue, have you murder in your mind?"
"Some may call it murder," he meekly said, "and some may call it sin, and as I'm not a learned man I shan't dispute 'em. But the pith of the affair is this. If Grantley can contrive to rattle the first blow in among my ribs, then I shall be a corpse. Yet, on the other hand, if I can get the first home I shan't need to strike again."
"Silence, wretch!" I commanded him with sternness. "Do you dare to talk of murder to my face, then?"
"Some may call it murder," he repeated, "but it never was a name of mine. It's a time of open war, you see; the rebel and the redcoat; and I'm a rebel, as you are aware."
"Well, at the best," says I, "even if one can square one's conscience, 'tis not the right English fashion, sir; and therefore I'll none of it."
"No," says he, reluctantly, "perhaps it's not. And certainly an open fight would consort kinder
