"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 was within an inch of my neck.
"I have a proposal," I cried. "We shall throw dice as to which is the prisoner of the other."
He smiled at this. It appealed to his love of sport.
"Where are your dice?" he cried.
"I have none."
"Nor I. But I have cards."
"Cards let it be," said I.
"And the game?"
"I leave it to you."
"Écarté, then—the best of three."
I could not help smiling as I agreed, for I do not suppose that there were three men in France who were my masters at the game. I told the Bart as much as we dismounted. He smiled also as he listened.
"I was counted the best player at Watier's," said he. "With even luck you deserve to get off if you beat me."
