words. "We were at practice, and my friend had the misfortune to be run
through the arm."

Chantel flung out his hands, in a motion at once furious and impudent.

"Zut! What a farce!--Will you tell me, please, since your friend has
disabled himself"--

Heywood wheeled upon him, scornfully.

"You have no right to such an expression," he stated, with a coldness
which conveyed more rage than the other man's heat. "This was entirely
my fault. It's I who have spoiled your--arrangement, and therefore I am
quite ready to take up my friend's quarrel."

"I have no quarrel with you," replied Chantel, contemptuously. "You saw
last night how he--"

"He was quicker than I, that's all. By every circumstance, I'm the
natural proxy. Besides"--the young man appealed to the company,
smiling--"besides, what a pity to postpone matters, and spoil the
occasion, when Doctor Chantel has gone to the trouble of a clean shirt."

The doctor recoiled, flung up a trembling arm, and as quickly dropped
it. His handsome face burned darker, then faded with a mortal pallor,
and for one rigid moment, took on such a strange beauty as though it
were about to be translated into bronze. His brown fingers twitched,
became all nerves and sinews and white knuckles. Then, stepping
backward, he withdrew from the circle.