'Supposing that I once had such a name, how can it concern you, since
you must have been a child when I bore it?'

'My name is Duroc.'

'Not the son of----?'

'The son of the man you murdered.'

The Baron tried to laugh, but there was terror in his eyes.

'We must let bygones be bygones, young man,' he cried. 'It was our life
or theirs in those days: the aristocrats or the people. Your father was
of the Gironde. He fell. I was of the mountain. Most of my comrades
fell. It was all the fortune of war. We must forget all this and learn
to know each other better, you and I.' He held out a red, twitching hand
as he spoke.

'Enough,' said young Duroc. 'If I were to pass my sabre through you as
you sit in that chair, I should do what is just and right. I dishonour
my blade by crossing it with yours. And yet you are a Frenchman, and
have even held a commission under the same flag as myself. Rise, then,
and defend yourself!'

'Tut, tut!' cried the Baron. 'It is all very well for you young
bloods--'

Duroc's patience could stand no more. He swung his open hand into the
centre of the great orange beard. I saw a lip fringed with blood, and
two glaring blue eyes above it.