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Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850-1894

"St. Ives, Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in England"

There was no help for it--I must
finish with him on the spot, as long as it was possible. I looked
about me, and the place seemed suitable; never a light, never a
house--nothing but stubble-fields, fallows, and a few stunted
trees. I stopped and eyed him in the moonlight with an angry
stare.
'Enough of this foolery!' said I.
He had tamed, and now faced me full, very pale, but with no sign of
shrinking.
'I am quite of your opinion,' said he. 'You have tried me at the
running; you can try me next at the high jump. It will be all the
same. It must end the one way.'
I made my holly whistle about my head.
'I believe you know what way!' said I. 'We are alone, it is night,
and I am wholly resolved. Are you not frightened?'
'No,' he said, 'not in the smallest. I do not box, sir; but I am
not a coward, as you may have supposed. Perhaps it will simplify
our relations if I tell you at the outset that I walk armed.'
Quick as lightning I made a feint at his head; as quickly he gave
ground, and at the same time I saw a pistol glitter in his hand.
'No more of that, Mr. French-Prisoner!' he said. 'It will do me no
good to have your death at my door.'
'Faith, nor me either!' said I; and I lowered my stick and
considered the man, not without a twinkle of admiration.


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