d Calabash, with a sardonic grin, "did Martial
thrash you? Did you hear that, mother? I'm not astonished that Nicholas
is so afraid of him."

"He walloped me, because, like a coward, he took me off my guard,"
exclaimed Nicholas, turning pale with rage.

"You lie! You attacked me unexpectedly; I knocked you flat, and then
showed you mercy. But if you talk of my mistress,--I say, mind you, of
my mistress,--this time I look it over,--you shall carry my marks for
many a long day."

"And suppose I choose to talk of La Louve?" inquired Calabash.

"Why, I'll pull your ears to put you on your guard; and if you begin
again, why, so will I."

"And suppose I speak of her?" said the widow, slowly.

"You?"

"Yes,--I!"

"You?" said Martial, making a violent effort over himself; "you?"

"You'll beat me, too, I suppose,--won't you?"

"No; but, if you speak to me unkindly of La Louve, I'll give Nicholas a
hiding he shall long remember. So now, mind! It is his affair as well as
yours."

"You?" exclaimed the ruffian, rising, and drawing his dangerous Spanish
knife; "you give me a hiding?"

[Illustration: _The Brigand dashed at his brother._
Original Etching by Adrian Marcel.]

"Nicholas, no steel!" cried the widow, quickly, leaving her seat, and
trying to seize her son's arm; but he, drunk with wine and passion,
repulsed his mother savagely, and rushed at his brother.

Martial receded rapidly, laid hold of the thick, knotted stick which he
had put down by the dresser, as he entered, and betook himself to the
defensive.

"Nicholas, no steel!" repeated the widow.

"Let him alone!" cried Calabash, taking up the ravageur's hatchet.

Nicholas, still brandishing his formidable knife, watched for a moment
when he could spring on his brother.

"I tell you," he exclaimed, "you and your trollop, La Louve, that I'll
slash your eyes out; and here goes to begin! Help, mother! Help,
Calabash! Let's make cold meat of the scamp; he's been in our way too
long already!" And, believing the moment favourable for his attack, the
brigand dashed at his brother with his uplifted knife.

Martial, who was a dexterous cudgeller, retreated a pace rapidly,
raising his stick, which, as quick as lightning, cut a figure of eight,
and fell so heavily on the right forearm of Nicholas that he, seized
with a sudden and overpowering pain, dropped his trenchant weapon.

"Villain, you have broken my arm!" he shouted, grasping with his left
hand the r