It was Captain Feraud and his seconds. He
drew his sabre, and assured himself that it was properly fastened to his
wrist. And now the seconds, who had been standing in close group with
the heads of their horses together, separated at an easy canter, leaving
a large, clear field between him and his adversary. Captain D'Hubert
looked at the pale sun, at the dismal fields, and the imbecility of the
impending fight filled him with desolation. From a distant part of
the field a stentorian voice shouted commands at proper intervals: Au
pas--Au trot--Charrrgez! . . . Presentiments of death don't come to
a man for nothing, he thought at the very moment he put spurs to his
horse.
And therefore he was more than surprised when, at the very first set-to,
Captain Feraud laid himself open to a cut over the forehead, which
blinding him with blood, ended the combat almost before it had fairly
begun. It was impossible to go on. Captain D'Hubert, leaving his enemy
swearing horribly and reeling in the saddle between his two appalled
friends, leaped the ditch again into the road and trotted home with his
two seconds, who seemed rather awestruck at the speedy issue of that
encounter.
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