I longed to be at him, for--curse him!--I hate him, and know that he
has no chance with me at sword's-play.

"'You'll not fight in that periwig, sure?' says Macshane. 'Of
course not,' says I, and took it off.

"May all barbers be roasted in flames; may all periwigs, bobwigs,
scratchwigs, and Ramillies cocks, frizzle in purgatory from this day
forth to the end of time! Mine was the ruin of me: what might I
not have been now but for that wig!

"I gave it over to Ensign Macshane, and with it went what I had
quite forgotten, the large patch which I wore over one eye, which
popped out fierce, staring, and lively as was ever any eye in the
world.

"'Come on!' says I, and made a lunge at my Count; but he sprang back
(the dog was as active as a hare, and knew, from old times, that I
was his master with the small-sword), and his second, wondering,
struck up my blade.

"'I will not fight that man,' says he, looking mighty pale. 'I
swear upon my honour that his name is Peter Brock: he was for two
years my corporal, and deserted, running away with a thousand pounds
of my moneys. Look at the fellow! What is the matter with his eye?
why did he wear a patch over it? But stop!' says he. 'I have more
proof. Hand me my pocket-book.' And from it, sure enough, he
produced the infernal proclamation announcing my desertion! 'See if
the fellow has a scar across his left ear' (and I can't say, my
dear, but what I have: it was done by a cursed Dutchman at the