"Ah! I had forgotten," replied the Englishman. "M. de Barjols,
as much in your interest as in his own, asked permission to bring
a surgeon, one of his friends."

"What for?" harshly demanded Roland, frowning.

"Why, in case either one of you was wounded. A man's life can
often be saved by bleeding him promptly."

"Sir John," exclaimed Roland, ferociously, "I don't understand
these delicacies in the matter of a duel. When men fight they fight
to kill. That they exchange all sorts of courtesies beforehand,
as your ancestors did at Fontenoy, is all right; but, once the
swords are unsheathed or the pistols loaded, one life must pay
for the trouble they have taken and the heart beats they have
lost. I ask you, on your word of honor, Sir John, to promise that,
wounded or dying, M. de Barjols' surgeon shall not be allowed
to touch me."

"But suppose, M. Roland--"

"Take it or leave it. Your word of honor, my lord, or devil take
me if I fight at all."

The Englishman again looked curiously at the young man. His face
was livid, and his limbs quivered as though in extreme terror.
Sir John, without understanding this strange dread, passed his
word.