THE DUEL.

A small and narrow ravine between the two furze-covered dells led to the open space where the meeting had been arranged for. As we reached this, therefore, we were obliged to descend from the drag, and proceed the remainder of the way afoot. We had not gone many yards when a step was heard approaching, and the next moment Beaufort appeared. His usually easy and dÉgagÉ air was certainly tinged with somewhat of constraint; and though his soft voice and half smile were as perfect as ever, a slightly flurried expression about the lip, and a quick and nervous motion of his eyebrow, bespoke a heart not completely at ease. He lifted his foraging cap most ceremoniously to salute us as we came up, and casting an anxious look to see if any others were following, stood quite still.

“I think it right to mention, Major O’Shaughnessy,” said he, in a voice of most dulcet sweetness, “that I am the only friend of Captain Trevyllian on the ground; and though I have not the slightest objection to Captain Baker being present, I hope you will see the propriety of limiting the witnesses to the three persons now here.”

“Upon my conscience, as far as I am concerned, or my friend either, we are perfectly indifferent if we fight before three or three thousand. In Ireland we rather like a crowd.”

“Of course, then, as you see no objection to my proposition, I may count upon your co-operation in the event of any intrusion,—I mean, that while we, upon our sides, will not permit any of our friends to come forward, you will equally exert yourself with yours.”

“Here we are, Baker and myself, neither more nor less. We expect no one, and want no one; so that I humbly conceive all the preliminaries you are talking of will never be required.”

Beaufort tried to smile, and bit his lips, while a small red spot upon his cheek spoke that some deeper feeling of irritation than the mere careless manner of the major could account for, still rankled in his bosom. We now walked on without speaking, except when occasionally some passing observation of Beaufort upon the fineness of the evening, or the rugged nature of the road, broke the silence. As we emerged from the little mountain pass into the open meadow land, the tall and soldier-like figure of Trevyllian was the first object that presented itself. He was standing beside a little stone cross that stood above a holy well, and seemed occupied in deciphering the inscription. He turned at the noise of our approach, and calmly waited our coming. His eye glanced quickly from the features of O’Shaughnessy to those of Baker; but seeming rapidly reassured as he walked forward, his face at once recovered its usual severity and its cold, impassive look of sternness.

“All right!” said Beaufort, in a whisper the tones of which I overheard, as he drew near to his friend. Trevyllian smiled in return, but did not speak. During the few moments which passed in conversation between the seconds, I turned from the spot with Baker, and had scarcely time to address a question to him, when O’Shaughnessy called out, “Hollo, Baker!—come here a moment!” The three seemed now in eager discussion for some minutes, when Baker walked towards Trevyllian, and saying something, appeared to wait for his reply. This being obtained, he joined the others, and the moment afterwards came to where I was standing. “You are to toss for first shot, O’Malley. O’Shaughnessy has made that proposition, and the others agree that with two crack marksmen, it is perhaps the fairest way. I suppose you have no objection?”

“Of course, I shall make none. Whatever O’Shaughnessy decides for me I am ready to abide by.”

“Well, then, as to the distance?” said Beaufort, loud enough to be heard by me where I was standing. O’Shaughnessy’s reply I could not catch, but it was evident, from the tone of both parties, that some difference existed on the point.

“Captain Baker shall decide between us,” said Beaufort, at length, and they all walked away to some distance. During all the while I could perceive that Trevyllian’s uneasiness and impatience seemed extreme; he looked from the speakers to the little mountain pass, and strained his eyes in every direction. It was clear that he dreaded some interruption. At last, unable any longer to control his feelings, he called out, “Beaufort, I say, what the devil are we waiting for now?”

“Nothing at present,” said Beaufort, as he came forward with a dollar in his hand. “Come, Major O’Shaughnessy, you shall call for your friend.”

He pitched the piece of money as he spoke high into the air, and watched it as it fell on the soft grass beneath.

“Head! for a thousand,” cried O’Shaughnessy, running over and stooping down; “and head it is!”

“You’ve won the first shot,” whispered Baker; “for Heaven’s sake be cool!”

Beaufort grew deadly pale as he bent over the crownpiece, and seemed scarcely to have courage to look his friend in his face. Not so Trevyllian; he pulled off his gloves without the slightest semblance of emotion, buttoned up his well-fitting black frock to the throat, and throwing a rapid glance around, seemed only eager to begin the combat.

“Fifteen paces, and the words, ‘One, two!’”

“Exactly. My cane shall mark the spot.”

“Devilish long paces you make them,” said O’Shaughnessy, who did not seem to approve of the distance. “They have some confounded advantage in this, depend upon it,” said the major, in a whisper to Baker.

“Are you ready?” inquired Beaufort.

“Ready,—quite ready!”

“Take your ground, then!”

As Trevyllian moved forward to his place, he muttered something to his friend. I did not hear the first part, but the latter words which met me were ominous enough: “For as I intend to shoot him, ‘tis just as well as it is.”

Whether this was meant to be overheard and intimidate me I knew not; but its effect proved directly opposite. My firm resolution to hit my antagonist was now confirmed, and no compunctious visitings unnerved my arm. As we took our places some little delay again took place, the flint of my pistol having fallen; and thus we remained full ten or twelve seconds steadily regarding each other. At length O’Shaughnessy came forward, and putting my weapon in my hand, whispered low, “Remember, you have but one chance.”

“You are both ready?” cried Beaufort.

“Ready!”

“Then: One, two—”

The last word was lost in the report of my pistol, which went off at the instant. For a second the flash and smoke obstructed my view; but the moment after I saw Trevyllian stretched upon the ground, with his friend kneeling beside him. My first impulse was to rush over, for now all feeling of enmity was buried in most heartfelt anxiety for his fate; but as I was stepping forward, O’Shaughnessy called out, “Stand fast, boy, he’s only wounded!” and the same moment he rose slowly from the ground, with the assistance of his friend, and looked with the same wild gaze around him. Such a look! I shall never forget it; there was that intense expression of searching anxiety, as if he sought to trace the outlines of some visionary spirit as it receded before him. Quickly reassured, as it seemed, by the glance he threw on all sides, his countenance lighted up, not with pleasure, but with a fiendish expression of revengeful triumph, which even his voice evinced as he called out: “It’s my turn now.”

I felt the words in their full force, as I stood silently awaiting my death wound. The pause was a long one. Twice did he interrupt his friend, as he was about to give the word, by an expression of suffering, pressing his hand upon his side, and seeming to writhe with torture; and yet this was mere counterfeit.

O’Shaughnessy was now coming forward to interfere and prevent these interruptions, when Trevyllian called out in a firm tone, “I’m ready!” At the words, “One, two!” the pistol slowly rose; his dark eye measured me coolly, steadily; his lip curled; and just as I felt that my last moment of life had arrived, a heavy sound of a horse galloping along the rocky causeway seemed to take off his attention. His frame trembled, his hand shook, and jerking upwards his weapon, the ball passed high above my head.

“You bear me witness I fired in the air,” said Trevyllian, while the large drops of perspiration rolled from his forehead, and his features worked as if in a fit.

“You saw it, sir; and you, Beaufort, my friend, you also. Speak! Why will you not speak?”

“Be calm, Trevyllian; be calm, for Heaven’s sake! What’s the matter with you?”

“The affair is then ended,” said Baker, “and most happily so. You are, I hope, not dangerously wounded.”

As he spoke, Trevyllian’s features grew deadly livid; his half-open mouth quivered slightly, his eyes became fixed, and his arm dropped heavily beside him, and with a low moan he fell fainting to the ground.

As we bent over him I now perceived that another person had joined our party; he was a short, determined-looking man of about forty, with black eyes and aquiline features. Before I had time to guess who it might be, I heard O’Shaughnessy address him as Colonel Conyers.

“He is dying!” said Beaufort, still stooping over his friend, whose cold hand he grasped within his own. “Poor, poor fellow!”

“He fired in the air,” said Baker, as he spoke in reply to a question from Conyers.

What he answered I heard not, but Baker rejoined,—

“Yes, I am certain of it. We all saw it.”

“Had you not better examine his wounds?” said Conyers, in a tone of sarcastic irony I could almost have struck him for. “Is your friend not hit? Perhaps he is bleeding?”

“Yes,” said O’Shaughnessy, “let us look to the poor fellow now.” So saying, with Beaufort’s aid he unbuttoned his frock and succeeded in opening his waistcoat. There was no trace of blood anywhere, and the idea of internal hemorrhage at once occurred to us, when Conyers, stooping down, pushed me aside, saying at the same time,—

“Your fears for his safety need not distress you much,—look here!” As he spoke he tore open his shirt, and disclosed to our almost doubting senses a vest of chain-mail armor fitting close next the skin and completely pistol-proof.

I cannot describe the effect this sight produced upon us. Beaufort sprang to his feet with a bound as he screamed out, rather than spoke, “No man believes me to have been aware—”

“No, no, Beaufort, your reputation is very far removed from such a stain,” said Conyers.

O’Shaughnessy was perfectly speechless. He looked from one to the other, as though some unexplained mystery still remained, and only seemed restored to any sense of consciousness as Baker said, “I can feel no pulse at his wrist,—his heart, too, does not beat.”

Conyers placed his hand upon his bosom, then felt along his throat, lifted up an arm, and letting it fall heavily upon the ground, he muttered, “He is dead!”

It was true. No wound had pierced him,—the pistol bullet was found within his clothes. Some tremendous conflict of the spirit within had snapped the cords of life, and the strong man had perished in his agony.