one."

"He's a most honourable young man."

"How can you be so green? He has a motive in it."

"What motive?"

"I don't know that. But, old fellow, listen to me. I'm a man of the world,
and have seen something of life; and I'll stake my honour and experience
that that fellow means to do you; so be advised, and--'Take care of him!'"

This was too much. I rushed out almost mad, and demanded an apology, or
satisfaction--the latter alternative was chosen. Oh, how my blood boiled!
I should either fall, or, at length, by thus chastising the impertinent,
put an end to the many meaning and hateful words.

We met; the ground was measured. I thought for a moment of the sin of
shedding human blood, and compressed my lips. A moment I wavered; but the
voice of my opponent's second whispering, "Take care of him," once more
nerved my heart and arm. My adversary's bullet whistled past my ear: _he_
fell--hit through the shoulder. He was carried to his carriage. I left the
ground, glad that I had chastised him, but released to find the wound was
not mortal. I felt as if in Heaven this act would free me from the worldly
ban. A week after, I met one of my old friends; he introduced me by name
to his father. The old gentleman started for a moment, then
exclaimed--"You know my feeling, Sir--you are a duellist! Tom, 'Take care
of him!'"

* * * * *