"It hangs at your door—Joan of Arc, I
wish to buy it."

"It is not for sale, Enrer Gnaden."

"Bah!" ejaculated Milor, " I must have
it. I will cover it with guineas."

"It is impossible."

"How impossible?" cried Milor, diving
into the capacious pocket of the drab coat
with the pearl buttons, and drawing forth a
heavy roll of English bank-notes, "I'll bet
you anything you like that it is possible."

You know, mein Lieber, that the English
settle everything by a wager; indeed, betting
and swearing is about all their language is
fit for. For a fact, there were once two
English noblemen, from Manchester or some
such ancient place, who journeyed down the
Rhine on the steam-boat. They looked neither
to the right nor to the left; neither at the
vine-fields nor the old castles; but sat at a
table, silent and occupied, with nothing before
them but two lumps of sugar, and two heaps
of guineas. A little crowd gathered round
them wondering what it might mean.
Suddenly one of them cried out, "Goddam, it's
mine!" "What is yours?" inquired one
who stood by, gaping with curiosity. "Don't
you see," replied the other, "I bet twenty
guineas level, that the first fly would alight
upon my lump of sugar, and by God, I've
won it!"

To return to Milor. "I'll bet you anything
you like that it is possible," said he.

"Your grace," replied the shopkeeper, "my
Joan of Arc is beyond price to me. It draws
all the town to my shop; not forgetting the
foreigners."

"I will buy your shop," said the Englishman.

"Milor! Graf Schweinekopf von Pimplestein
called only yesterday to see it, and Le
Comte de Barbebiche."

"A Frenchman!" shouted Milor.

"From Paris," your grace.

"Will you sell me your Joan of Arc?"
was the furious demand. "I will cover it
with pounds sterling twice over"

"Le Comte de Barbebiche"—

"You have promised it to him?"

"Yes!" gasped Herr Wechsel, catching
at the idea.

"Enough!" cried the English nobleman;
and he strode into the street. With one
impassioned glance at the figure of La Pucelle,
he threw himself into his fiaker, and drove
rapidly out of sight.

On reaching his hotel, he chose two pairs
of boxing gloves, a set of rapiers, and a case
of duelling pistols; and, thus loaded,
descended to his fiaker, tossed them in, and
started off in the direction of the nearest
hotel. "Le Comte de Barbebiche"—that
was the pass-word; but everywhere it failed
to elicit the desired reply. He passed from
street to street—from gasthaus to gasthaus—
everywhere the same dreary negative; and
the day waned, and his search was still
unsuccessful. But he never relaxed; the
morning found him still pursuing his
enquiries; and mid-day saw him at the porte
cochére of the Hotel of the Holy Ghost, in
the Rothenthurm Strasse, with his case of
duelling pistols in his hand, his set of rapiers
under his arm, and his two pairs of boxing-
gloves slung round his neck.

"Deliver my card immediately to the
Comte," said he to the attendant; "and tell
him I am waiting." He had found him out.
Luckily, the Comte de Barbebiche happened
to be in the best possible humour when this
message was conveyed to him, having just
succeeded in dyeing his mustache to his
entire satisfaction. He glanced at the card
—smiled at himself complacently in the
mirror before him, and answered in a
gracious voice, "Let Milor Mountpleasant
come up."

Milor was soon heard upon the stairs; and,
as he strode into the room, he flung his set of
rapiers with a clatter on the floor, dashed his
case of duelling pistols on the table, and with
a dexterous twist sent one pair of boxing-
gloves rolling at the feet of the Comte, while,
pulling on the other, he stood in an attitude
of defence before the astonished Frenchman.

"What is this?" enquired the Comte de
Barbebiche.

"This is the alternative," cried the Englishman.
"Here are weapons; take your choice
—pistols, rapiers, or the gloves. Fight with
one of them you must, and shall, or abandon
your claim to Joan of Arc."

"Mon Dieu! What Joan of Arc? I
do not have the felicity of knowing the
lady."

"You may see her, Am Graben," gravely
replied Milor, "outside a shop door, done in
oil."

"Heh!" exclaimed the astonished Comte,
"in oil—an Esquimaux, or a Tartar, pray?"

"Monsieur le Comte, I want no trifling.
Do you persist in the purchase of this
picture? I have set my heart upon it; I love
it; I have sworn to possess it. Make it a
matter of money, and I will give you a
thousand pounds for your bargain; make it
a matter of dispute, and I will fight you for
it to the death; make it a matter of friendship,
and yield up your right, and I will
embrace you as a brother, and be your
debtor for the rest of my life."

The Comte de Barbebiche—seeing that he
had to do with an Englishman a degree, at
least, more crazed than the rest of his
countrymen—entered into the spirit of the matter
at once, and chose the easiest means of
extricating himself from a difficulty.

"Milor," he exclaimed, advancing towards
him, "I am charmed with your sentiments,
your courage, and your integrity. Take her,
Milor—take your Joan of Arc; I would not
attempt to deprive you of her if she were a
real flesh and blood Pucelle, and my own
sister."