Then Carl von Mendebach slowly drew off his fur glove and boxed Smallie
heavily on the ear so that he rolled over sideways.
“Golossa-a-l,” muttered Von Mendebach, as we went away hurriedly
together.
The next morning Carl sent an English-speaking student with a challenge
to Andrew Smallie. I wrote a note to my compatriot, telling him that
although it was not our habit in England, he would do well to accept
the challenge or to leave Gottingen at once. Carl stood over me while I
wrote the letter.
“Tell him,” he said, “where he can procure fencing lessons.”
I gave Smallie the name of the best fencing-master in Gottingen. Then
we called for beer and awaited the return of our messenger. The student
came back looking grave and pale.
“He accepts,” he said. “But--”
“Well!” we both exclaimed.
“He names pistols.”
“What?” I cried. Carl laughed suddenly. We had never thought of such a
thing. Duelling with pistols is forbidden. It is never dreamt of among
German students.
“Ah--all right!” said Carl. “If he wishes it.”
I at once wrote a note to Smallie, telling him that the thing was
impossible. My messenger was sent back without an answer. I wrote,
offering to fight Carl myself with the usual light sword or the sabre,
in his name and for him. To this I received no answer. I went round to
his rooms and was refused admittance.
The next morning at five--before it was light--Carl and I started off
on foot for a little forest down by the river. At six o'clock Andrew
Smallie arrived. He was accompanied by an Einjahriger--a German who had
lived in England before he came home to serve his year in the army.
We did not know much about it. Carl laughed as I put him in position.
The fresh pink of his cheek--like the complexion of a healthy
girl--never faded for a moment.
“When I've done with him,” cried Smallie, “I'll fight you.”
We placed our men. The German soldier gave the word. Carl von Mendebach
went down heavily.
He was still smiling--with a strange surprise on his simple face.
“Little man,” he said, “he has hit me.”
He lay quite still while I quickly loosened his coat. Then suddenly his
breath caught.
“Golossa-a-l!” he muttered. His eyes glazed. He was dead.
I looked up and saw Smallie walking quickly away alone. The Einjahriger
was kneeling beside me.
I have never seen or heard of Andrew Smallie since. I am a grey-haired
man now. I have had work to do in every war of my day. I have
been wounded--I walk very lame. But I still hope to see Andrew
Smallie--perhaps in a country where I can hold him to his threat; if it
is only for the remembrance of five minutes that I had with Lisa when I
went back to Gottingen that cold winter morning.