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“What upon earth occasioned your singular transformation
yesterday?” said I to Rabenmark, as he
entered my room the next afternoon.

“There was nothing very surprising in it,” he replied;
“I tell you I am as well aware as any one of
the absurdity of my usual dress, conduct, and habits,
and I have told you my reasons for continuing
them; but there is something I have not told you,
and which I hardly understand why I should tell
you now, except that I feel we are more than common
friends, although acquainted so short a time.
You saw the Countess Bertha Wallenstein last
night?”

“The beautiful blonde you were speaking to just
before I left the saloon?” — Yes.

“She is my betrothed.”

“I thought as much; but what an extraordinary
circumstance — you, a boy of seventeen, a fox.
Who ever heard of a fox betrothed?”

“That is exactly what her father, old

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Wallenstein, is likely to think. He is a stern severe old
martinet, and if he takes it into his head to oppose
our union, he will continue to do so out of pure obstinacy;
and yet what can be more unreasonable.
My family is as ancient and noble as his own. A
descendant of the great Friedland need not feel himself
degraded by an alliance with a house whose
ancestors once entertained Charlemagne with regal
pomp at his own castle. My worldly expectations
are also very good — quite equal to Bertha's, and
in fact, there is no reason why we should not be
united.”

“I should, however, I own, be greatly surprised,”
I replied, “if you did not find the opposition from
the father which you seem to expect. Your very
commendable style of life — the impartial division
of your time between drinking and duelling, your
strict attention, in short, to the two great duties of a
student's life, must render you particularly acceptable
to the father of any marriageable daughter!”

“The fact is, my dear Morton,” he replied, “I
have given way to my natural impulses in these
particulars, — the more willingly, because we wish
for the present to conceal our mutual engagements
from Count Wallenstein. It is impossible, under
any circumstances, that we should be united for
three or four years — a very short probation for us
faithful Germans. Such however, is the resolute
and unyielding character of Bertha's father, that
nothing would induce him to consent to our union
if he once opposed it. It is also highly improbable

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that any thing could induce him to regard the engagement
with a favourable eye; at present we
desire, consequently, to give him no cause to suspect
that such a thing exists.”

“But what is to be the issue of the adventure?”

“In two years and a half I shall have completed my
diplomatic studies, and shall have gone through with
my examination; after which, through the influence
of my uncle, Count Pappenheim, I hope very soon
to be provided with a diplomatic situation at some
of the foreign courts. I shall by that time, also,
have completed my twenty-first year, and have
come into the possession of a landed estate, worth at
least 5000 rix-dollars a-year. I hope, in the mean
time, with the assistance of Bertha, to overcome the
resistance of old Wallenstein, and to convince him
that I am, in reality, something better than the
good-for-nothing desperado which he at present, in
common with the rest of my acquaintance, takes
me for.”

“A very feasible plan; and in the mean time you
enjoy yourself and your studenten-leben (student's
life.) But does Bertha approve of all these doings?”

“Why, perhaps not exactly; but then, you know,
there are certain subjects on which women cannot
be expected to form so correct opinions as men. As
long as she knows that I am faithful to her, and in
all things do nothing unworthy of my honour as a
man and a nobleman, all will be well. Besides, she
is not altogether so squeamish as many other women
on many subjects; and as she knows that I despise

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as much as any one the very habits of life which I
at present see fit to assume, she feels safe; and in
my scrupulous and honourable fidelity to her, in
body and soul, she feels she can confide.”

“Well, she is a very sensible woman, and I see
no obstacle to your eventual success.”

“None in the world,” he replied. “So now for
old Kopp and Fizzleberg.”

As we walked towards the inn, in the hall of
which the duels almost universally take place, we
continued our conversation.

“I think you said something of an uncle Pappenheim,”
said I. “By the way, is there not some one
of that name at present in Göttingen.”

“Certainly—my cousin Leopold—the son of that
Count Pappenheim.”

“Is he a student?”

“No; he made his examination last year, and
is already attached en attendant to the `foreign
affairs' office in Vienna.”

“Then why is he not at his post?”

“Because he is exactly in the same scrape as
myself—he is in love.”

“Well, I thought I heard something of the kind.
Is not the little Poodleberg the object of his affections?”

“Yes; and old Poodleberg opposes, because he
has become so puffed up with his own success, that
he expects to marry his daughter to an arch-duke
at least.”

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“And does the gentle Ida return your cousin's
devotion?”

“Yes; but here we are, at Keiser's; and I must
be thinking of more ferocious matters.”

I could not help being somewhat puzzled by the
whole business of the Fräulein Poodleberg, but hoped
still that time would unravel the mystery; and
in the mean time, we entered the duelling-room.

The house where I now found myself was an inn
of rather large size, and situated not more than a
quarter of a mile from one of the gates of Gottingen.
It had nothing in particular to distinguish it
from other inns of the same class, and the room where
we had arrived, after ascending the principal stair-case,
was simply the hall which was used as a dancing-room
on Sunday afternoons by the maid-servants
and peasants from the town and its environs,
although on week-days it was the scene of blood
and devastation.

It was a hall of very considerable dimensions,
tolerably lofty, and lighted by two windows at each
end. On each side, towards one extremity of the
hall, was a small chamber.

As we entered, there were already some fifty or
sixty students present, of all ages, sizes, and denominations.
There had already been several duels
that afternoon; but nothing of importance had taken
place.

“Do you go los this afternoon, Rabenmark?”
said Schnappsberger.

“Yes, if any of my men are here.”

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“Whom do you expect?” said Schnappsberger.

“Kopp and Fizzelberg are the two first on the
list.”

“What! Kopp the Westphalian?”

“Exactly.”

“Thousand donnerwetters! why, he is senior of
the Westphalian club, and the best schläger in all
Göttingen.”

“Sausage!”

This word sausage is a student's expression for
indifference, and is one of the most frequent of their
slang phrases. To say such a thing is sausage to
me, means, I care nothing at all for it—it's all one—
“Je m'en moque.” By the way, I may as well remark,
that the German student's slang is almost as
copious as the language itself, and is so totally distinct
from it, that a very ample dictionary of it has
been published.

“So you are going los with Kopp the Westphalian,”
grunted Dummberg, who was always present
on these occasions.

“Yes; at your service,” said Rabenmark.

“Why, he is senior of the Westphalians, and the
best schläger in Göttingen. You will certainly get
your nose cut off,” returned Dummberg.

“Sausage!” repeated Rabenmark.

“Who else shall you fight this afternoon, if you
get off from Kopp?” asked Trump Von Toggenburg.

“Fizzelberg.”

“Fizzelberg! why he is consenior of the

[figure description] Page 209.[end figure description]

Westphalians, and the next best schläger in Göttingen,”
said Trump, in dismay.

“Sausage!”

In the midst of these encouraging pieces of information,
Rabenmark, nodding to me to accompany
him, marched into the chamber belonging to the
club.

There were some dozen students there belonging
to the Pommerania. Three stood at a table, on
which lay a box of sword-blades, with hammers,
screw-drivers, and other accompaniments of the armourer's
trade. One of them fussed up to Rabenmark
with an important face, and held out to him
a schläger.

“There,” said he, “I have just picked out the
best blade in the whole box of new ones, which we
have just received from Solingen. I have screwed
it in on purpose for you. Try it.”

Rabenmark took the schläger, threw himself into
a posture of defence, and cut a few slashes in the
air.

“This will do for Fizzelberg; but old Kopp seems
such a redoubtable customer, that I must have a
look myself at the box.”

The three opened the chest, and displayed their
collection. Rabenmark poked among them for a
few minutes, feeling the edge of one, the weight of
another, and at last selected one, which the fussy
personage with the important face immediately
screwed into the hilt.

Rabenmark took off his coat and prepared to

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undress, and dress himself for the conflict. Two or
three other students, who appeared to have recently
finished an affair of honour of the same kind, were
resuming their usual habiliments.

“Got any thing to-day, Plattenheim?” asked
Rabenmark of one of them.

“No cuts:—but that devil, Manlius, has beaten
me with the flat most infernally.—He is a splendid
schläger; but he cannot cut sharp,” was the answer.

“Swine for you,” said Rabenmark.

Swine (Schwein) is the reverse of Pitch (Pech)
in the student's dialect, and is the elegant expression
for all kinds of good luck.

“And you, Zinzendorf,” said the fox, continuing
to undress, “what was the result of your Paukerei
with Stott?—It came off to-day, I believe?”

“Pitch enough,” was the reply; “look here, under
my arm:” and Zinzendorff showed a small
cut, about an inch long, and hardly skin-deep,
which had, however, been found exactly of sufficient
dimensions to answer the requisitions of the “Comment,”
and consequently entailed the disgrace of
discomfiture on him who received it.

Rabenmark had now divested himself of all clothing
but his shirt and trowsers. The defensive armour,
used in these student's duels was now brought
him.

He first put around his neck a stock of silk, wadded
very tightly, and nearly an inch in thickness.
This effectually protected the throat, and its vital

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arteries, from any sword-cut. Next he assumed the
duelling-breeches. This elegant article of dress resembles
an apron divided into two compartments,
and perhaps it is a hyperbole to dignify it with the
appellation of breeches. It is made of strong leather,
padded to a great thickness, is strapped and buckled
round the body and the legs, and reaches from the
waist to the knees. His right arm, from the shoulder
to the wrist, was then swathed with a kind of
rope of old black cravats; and upon his head was
placed a large and wadded club cap, with a large
leather front-piece.

Thus it will be seen that the only parts of the
combatant left exposed are the face and breast; and
it is consequently these alone that are invariably
found covered and tattooed with scars.

Affenstein, with his sinister and noseless visage,
and Schnappsberger, who were to be Rabenmark's
two seconds, had already assumed a sort of costume,
less defensive than the principal's, which is always
worn by the seconds. Affenstein looked into the
room, and observed that the opposite parties were
entering—upon which we made no delay, but hastened
to the scene of action.

Rabenmark and his seconds marched stoutly into
the centre of the hall, at the exact moment that
Kopp and his friends appeared from the opposite
door. Old Dummberg, who was to be umpire, was
already there, smoking his pipe with perfect composure,
and holding a bit of chalk between his
thumb and finger. As soon as the combatants

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appeared, he stooped down, and marked off with his
chalk the proper places and distances. A ring was
formed, and the five were left in the centre of a circle
of some forty or fifty spectators.

“Join your blades,” said Dummberg, in a sonorous
tone.

The two principals threw themselves on guard,
and crossed their weapons. The two seconds standing
at opposite corners, did the same, and laid their
blunt iron swords across the bright blades of the
combatants.

“The blades are joined,” said Affenstein.

There was a moment's pause.

The whole picture was peculiar, and would have
been a fit subject for Caravaggio.—The costume of
the students, (particularly the duelling-costume,)
though wild-looking and bizarre enough, as may be
supposed, is rather picturesque in its effect.

Both the combatants, and both the seconds, were
tall, well-formed young men. The two Pommeranians
wore bright red caps, with broad gold bands,
and their scarfs and sword-hilts were of the same
colours. The Westphalians wore dark green and
silver. The four had thrown themselves into warlike
postures of offence and defence, and the word
was just to be given for the commencement of the
contest.

It was after all a gladiatorial exhibition worthy
the arena of a Roman amphitheatre; and the aspect
of the spectators, with their bearded faces, singular

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dresses, tasselled pipes, and doughty clubs, was in
good accordance with the rest of the show.

“Join your blades,” repeated Dummberg.

“Joined they are,” responded Affenstein.

“Los!” roared the umpire.

In a twinkling of an eye the seconds withdrew
their swords from the conjunction, and backed to
the verge of the “mensura.”

The principals were left alone, with their swords
crossed.

For an instant they remained motionless, and
eyed each other warily, but undauntedly. Suddenly
Rabenmark raised his weapon, and making a feint
at the head of his antagonist, directed a violent
blow at his breast. It was skilfully parried by the
opposite party, who retorted with a savage “quart,”
which, if successful, would have nearly severed him
in two. The fox caught it on his sword, with a
skill which I hardly believed him capable of, and
then becoming animated, rained a succession of
violent and rapid blows, now quart, and now tierce,
upon his adversary. They were all parried with
wonderful precision and coolness, till the last, when
a tremendous “deep tierce” evidently took effect.

The seconds sprung in, and struck up the swords
of the combatants.

“A hit, — I swear it was a hit!” roared Affenstein.

“No hit, — no hit, —” cried the opposite second.

“Umpire, — umpire, — I appeal to you!” vociferated
both parties, equally inflamed.

[figure description] Page 214.[end figure description]

“I think it was a hit; but am not sure where.—
You may examine,” said Dummberg, very calmly,
without taking his pipe from his mouth.

Kopp's second now advanced, opened the bosom of
Rabenmark's shirt, and searched carefully for any
scratch or sign of the conflict. — There were none
visible. — Affenstein did the same to Kopp. It was
then discovered that the blow had really not been
parried, but had alighted, however, on the padded
leather, just below the breast. — It was of course
harmless, and passed for nothing.

“Join your blades!” said Dummberg, chalking
down one gang on the stem of the pipe he was smoking.

“Joined they are,” said the seconds.

“Los!”

Away went the seconds, and furiously the antagonists
renewed the conflict. Kopp, who, as we have
already heard, was a celebrated champion, rendered
furious at having been already so nearly wounded
by a fox, now threw himself on the offensive. I
trembled for Rabenmark, for I knew that he was
bad at parrying, and that his only chance of success
with his present adversary was in a desperate and
furious attack. He was, however, now obliged to
act on the defensive, and he stood his ground at first
very well.

Kopp followed him up with tremendous ferocity.
Now he struck half-a-dozen quarts in rapid succession, —
then an unexpected tierce would nearly
throw the fox off his guard, — and then he

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alternated all kinds of blows in the most bewildering and annoying
manner.

I perceived that the dexterity of my friend was
nearly exhausted, and expected every instant to
see him stretched upon the floor. At last, Kopp
aimed a prodigious blow at Rabenmark's head. It
came within a quarter of an inch of the frontlet of the
cap, before Rabenmark succeeded in beating it off
with a desperate and successful back-handed stroke.
The fox, now throwing himself entirely off his guard,
rushed wildly upon his adversary. He beat down
his sword before he had time to recover his posture
of defence, and with one last, violent and tremendous
effort, he struck at his adversary's head. It was unexpected,
and too late to parry; the blow alighted
full upon the cheek of the enemy. Its force was prodigious;
the Westphalian, stunned and blinded, staggered
a few paces forwards, and then his feet slipped
up, and he fell upon the floor.

The seconds sprang in.

“I suppose you will allow that to be a hit?” said
the fox, to his adversary's second.

“Little doubt of it, I am afraid,” replied he, turning
to his principal. He was bleeding profusely, and
was already quite insensible.

As it is very seldom that the wounds received in
these duels are so severe as to prevent the parties from
walking home very soon after, it will be seen at once
that this blow inflicted by Rabenmark was of more
than usual magnitude. It is very rare indeed, to see
either of the parties fall at all; but here was Kopp,

[figure description] Page 216.[end figure description]

one of the strongest and most athletic men at the
university, struck to the earth, and lying in a state
of total insensibility.

I went up, and took a look at him. The Pauk
doctor was busily sponging away the blood, and an
assistant was applying restoratives to awaken him
from his swoon. The side of the cap had been cut
through by the violence of the blow, and a deep
and ghastly wound extended from the top of the
head across the temple and the cheek. The whole
side of the face was laid open.

“He has enough for the next six weeks,” said
Rabenmark, coolly turning towards the dressingroom.

“Verfluchter Fuchs!” (cursed fox) murmured the
wounded man, reviving at the sound of his adversary's
voice for an instant, and then relapsing into
his swoon.

“I suppose you are too fatigued for Fizzelberg
now?” inquired I.

“Not a bit,” he replied. “I shall finish old Fizzelberg
at once. I have evidently swine to-day, and
don't know how it may be to-morrow. Affenstein,
go and ask him to get ready; in the meantime, I
will rest myself a little.”

He sat down by an open window to cool himself,
and in the meantime Trump Von Toggenburg and
others discussed the “paukerei” which had just
taken place.

“That's a devilish good deep tierce of yours, fox,”

[figure description] Page 217.[end figure description]

said Affenstein; “I have noticed that it is your
favourite blow.”

“I always put myself on guard in this manner,”
said Trump, seizing and brandishing one of the
schlägers; “and I always strike this quart,”' continued
he, making what he considered a very scientific
stroke in the air. That deep tierce of Rabenmark's
is dexterous, but my `quart' is irresistible. I
learned it of my grandfather. When my grandfather
was a student at —”

“Rabenmark! Fizzelberg is waiting for you!”
cried Affenstein, fortunately interrupting Trump's
biographical anecdotes.

“Very well,” answered the fox; “here goes.” And
he again entered the arena.

It was a great exaggeration of Trump's to say
that Rabenmark's present adversary was the second
best schläger in Göttingen. In fact, Trump knew
nothing about the matter; but as he was one of
that sort of people who are always for knowing
more than any one else upon every subject, he was
in the habit of venturing assertions at haphazard,
without knowing whether they were right or wrong.
In the present instance, he was totally mistaken.
Fizzelberg was neither con-senior of the Westphalians,
nor a good schläger. He was, in fact, but a
beginner in the science of defence. He was, moreover,
I perceived, considerably fluttered by the tremendous
discomfiture of his friend Kopp. He came

[figure description] Page 218.[end figure description]

up to the scratch pretty manfully, however, and
put the best face he could on the matter.

“Join your blades!”

“Joined they are.”

“Los!”

Whack! — whack! — whack!

“Hold! hold!” cried the seconds, striking up the
swords, after half-a-dozen blows and parries had
been exchanged.

“A hit!”

“No, — no.”

“Umpire?” appealed the seconds.

“Nichts,” said Dummberg, and so they went at
it again.

Whack! — whack! — whack!

Rabenmark had, on first commencing the conflict,
conducted himself rather warily. He had heard
falsely, as we know, of the high reputation of his
new antagonist, and determined that his previous
triumph over Kopp should not be thrown into the
shade by a present overthrow. He, however, soon
perceived how much he had been mistaken in the
character of Fizzelberg, and felt himself secure of
an easy victory. He accordingly contented himself
for the present with parrying his adversary's blows,
till he was roused to exertion by being nearly cut
across the face by a successful quart from his opponent.

“Tausend Teufel!” he cried, as he barely contrived
to parry it. “Take care of yourself now, Mr.
Fizzelberg!” and forthwith began to make play in

[figure description] Page 219.[end figure description]

the most vigorous manner. His adversary, however,
held his own pretty well, and parried the strokes
with tolerable success, till a back-handed tierce,
something similar in its character to the tierce
which had settled Kopp's business, although far less
violent, took him inside his guard, and hit him just
above the leather breeches.

The swords were struck up.

“A hit!”

“Yes,” said Dummberg, marking the third gang
on his pipe-stem. “Let the seconds examine.”

Rabenmark was examined by his adversary's
second, and found unscathed; while, at the same
time, Affenstein clawed up the shirt of Fizzelberg.

“Bah!” said he, “what a trifle—but sufficient to
decide the duel. It is a —, at least,” said he,
using the usual student's expression for a wound of
the requisite size and depth, but which is too coarse
to be mentioned either in German or English.

“No, it is not,” cried Fizzelberg's second.

“Umpire!”

“Let it be measured,” pronounced Dummberg.

I must here mention, for the benefit of the uninitiated,
that the simple duel of twelve “gangs,” or the
more important one of twenty-four gangs, without
any wound given or received, or before the completion
of the exact number, by the reception on either
side of a wound of a certain length and depth, and
from which the blood flows within a given time. It
is only, however, simple duels — that is to say,
duels to revenge a simple insult, such as that which

[figure description] Page 220.[end figure description]

passed between Rabenmark and his two antagonists—
which are settled in so simple and trivial a manner.
Quarrels of a serious nature are settled in a
more important manner; as, for instance, a meeting
without defensive armour, and for an indefinite number
of rounds, that is, as long as the parties can
stand on their legs. It was my lot to see, and it is
my intention to describe, a very desperate encounter
which took place some time subsequent to these
proceedings, between Rabenmark and another,
which was more serious in its nature and its effects;
but at present it is necessary for me to return to the
thread of my story.

“Let it be measured,” said Dummberg.

“Have you a measure?” asked Affenstein of the
adverse second.

“Yes; here is one,” he replied, producing a little
silver rule graduated in the minutest manner.

“Have the kindness to measure the wound, and
satisfy yourself, then,” said Affenstein. “Umpire,
look at your watch.”

Accordingly Fizzelberg's second advanced towards
his principal, and looked on while Affenstein
laid bare his breast. A ridiculous little scratch presented
itself, from which the blood had hardly begun
to flow. The second took the silver rule, and
gravely adjusted it to the wound. It was discovered
to be exactly one inch and one-tenth in length;
and as the “Comment” only required one and onetwentieth,
its size was declared sufficient.

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