Then I turned again to the little man on the table. What a sight met my eyes!
There stood upon the table the miniature image of my uncle, staring with wide-open eyes at the little figure of my guest. For a moment they glared at each other—and then, before I could interfere, they were fighting for their lives. It was over in a second. My uncle was too old and feeble to be a match for the wiry little warrior in leather. As they separated, my uncle seemed to be wounded, for he staggered an instant, and then fell backward, staining the cloth like an overturned bottle of red ink.
"You scoundrel!" I cried, starting forward in anger; "what have you done?"
For a moment the little fellow had no breath to answer. He panted helplessly, and at length gasped out:
"It is—but—justice! It is Trancastro!"
"Trancastro?" I exclaimed—"that was my uncle! Explain. I cannot understand!"
"Do you know what dmax is?" he asked, as he wiped his sword on a napkin.
"No!" I shouted.
"Then you could n't understand," he said, mournfully shaking his head.
