You refuse to cross swords with me on the pretext that you do not fight men of my stamp.

I am no saint, sir, I confess.
But my sins cannot wash out my name--the name of a family accounted as good as that of St.Auban, and one from which a Constable of France has sprung, whereas yours has never yet bred aught but profligates and debauchees.

You are little better than I am, Marquis; indeed, you do many things that I would not do, that I have never done.

For instance, whilst refusing to cross blades with me, who am a soldier and a man of the sword, you seek to pick a fight with a beardless boy who hardly knows the use of a rapier, and who--wittingly at least--has done you no wrong.

Now, my master, you may call me profligate, ruffler, gamester, duellist--what you will; but there are two viler things you cannot dub me, and which, methinks, I have proven you to be--liar and craven." And as I spoke the burning words, I stood close up to him and tapped his breast as if to drive the epithets into his very heart.
Rage he felt, indeed, and his distorted countenance was a sight fearful to behold.
"Now, my master," I added, setting my arms akimbo and laughing brutally in his face, "will you fight ?" For a moment he wavered, and surely meseemed that I had drawn him.