His answer was a cut at my head. I parried and shore off half of his white plume. He thrust at my breast. I turned his point and cut away the other half of his cockade.
'Curse your monkey-tricks!' he cried, as I wheeled my horse away from him.
'Why should you strike at me?' said I. 'You see that I will not strike back.'
'That's all very well,' said he; 'but you've got to come along with me to the camp.'
'I shall never see the camp,' said I.
'I'll lay you nine to four you do,' he cried, as he made at me, sword in hand.
But those words of his put something new into my head. Could we not decide the matter in some better way than fighting? The Bart was placing me in such a position that I should have to hurt him, or he would certainly hurt me. I avoided his rush, though his sword-point w
