When Dr. Teackle shut the door of the ballroom upon himself and Mark Gilbert the two did not tarry long in the colonel's den, which was still occupied by half a dozen of the older men, who were being beguiled by a relay of hot terrapin that Alec had just served. On the contrary, they continued on past the serving tables, past old Cobden Dorsey, who was steeped to the eyes in Santa Cruz rum punch; past John Purviance, and Gatchell and Murdoch, smacking their lips over the colonel's Madeira, dived through a door leading first to a dark passage, mounted to a short flight of steps leading to another dark passage, and so on through a second door until they reached a small room level with the ground. This was the colonel's business office, where he conducted the affairs of the estate—a room remote from the great house and never entered except on the colonel's special invitation and only then when business of importance necessitated its use.

That business of the very highest importance—not in any way connected with the colonel, though of the very gravest moment—was being enacted here to-night, could be seen the instant Teackle, with Gilbert at his heels, threw open the door. St. George and Harry were in one corner—Harry backed against the wall. The boy was pale, but perfectly calm and silent. On his face was the look of a man who had a duty to perform and who intended to go through with it come what might. On the opposite side of the room stood Willits with two young men, his most intimate friends. They had followed him out of the ballroom to learn the cause of his sudden outburst, and so far had only heard Willits's side of the affair. He was now perfectly sober and seemed to feel his position, but he showed no fear. On the desk lay a mahogany case containing the colonel's duelling pistols. Harry had taken them from his father's closet as he passed through the colonel's den.

St. George turned to the young doctor. His face was calm and thoughtful, and he seemed to realize fully the gravity of the situation.

“It's no use, Teackle,” St. George said with an expressive lift of his fingers. “I have done everything a man could, but there is only one way out of it. I have tried my best to save Kate from every unhappiness to-night, but this is something much more important than woman's tears, and that is her lover's honor.”

“You mean to tell me, Uncle George, that you can't stop this!” Teackle whispered with some heat, his eyes strained, his lips twitching. Here he faced Harry. “You sha'n't go on with this affair, I tell you, Harry. What will Kate say? Do you think she wants you murdered for a foolish thing like this!—and that's about what will happen.”

The boy made no reply, except to shake his head. He knew what Kate would say—knew what she would do, and knew what she would command him to do, could she have heard Willits's continued insults in this very room but a moment before while St. George was trying to make him apologize to his host and so end the disgraceful incident.

“Then I'll go and bring in the colonel and see what he can do!” burst out Teackle, starting for the door. “It's an outrage that—”

“You'll stay here, Teackle,” commanded St. George—“right where you stand! This is no place for a father. Harry is of age.”

“But what an ending to a night like this!”

“I know it—horrible!—frightful!—but I would rather see the boy lying dead at my feet than not defend the woman he loves.” This came in a decisive tone, as if he had long since made up his mind to this phase of the situation.

“But Langdon is Harry's guest,” Teackle pleaded, dropping his voice still lower to escape being heard by the group at the opposite end of the room—“and he is still under his roof. It is never done—it is against the code. Besides”—and his voice became a whisper—“Harry never levelled a pistol at a man in his life, and this is not Langdon's first meeting. We can fix it in the morning. I tell you we must fix it.”

Harry, who had been listening quietly, reached across the table, picked up the case of pistols, handed it to Gilbert, whom he had chosen as his second, and in a calm, clear, staccato tone—each word a bullet rammed home—said:

“No—Teackle, there will be no delay until to-morrow. Mr. Willits has forfeited every claim to being my guest and I will fight him here and now. I could never look Kate in the face, nor would she ever speak to me again, if I took any other course. You forget that he virtually told Kate she lied,” and he gazed steadily at Willits as if waiting for the effect of his shot.

St. George's eyes kindled. There was the ring of a man in the boy's words. He had seen the same look on the elder Rutter's face in a similar situation twenty years before. As a last resort he walked toward where Willits stood conferring with his second.

“I ask you once more, Mr. Willits”—he spoke in his most courteous tones (Willits's pluck had greatly raised him in his estimation)—“to apologize like a man and a gentleman. There is no question in my mind that you have insulted your host in his own house and been discourteous to the woman he expects to marry, and that the amende honorable should come from you. I am twice your age and have had many experiences of this kind, and I would neither ask you to do a dishonorable thing nor would I permit you to do it if I could prevent it. Make a square, manly apology to Harry.”

Willits gazed at him with a certain ill-concealed contempt on his face. He was at the time loosening the white silk scarf about his throat in preparation for the expected encounter. He evidently did not believe a word of that part of the statement which referred to Harry's engagement. If Kate had been engaged to Harry she would have told him so.

“You are only wasting your time, Mr. Temple,” he answered with an impatient lift of his chin as he stripped his coat from his broad shoulders. “You have just said there is only one way to settle this—I am ready—so are my friends. You will please meet me outside—there is plenty of firelight under the trees, and the sooner we get through this the better. The apology should not come from me, and will not. Come, gentlemen,” and he stepped out into the now drizzling night, the glare of the torches falling on his determined face and white shirt as he strode down the path followed by his seconds.

Seven gentlemen hurriedly gathered together, one a doctor and another in full possession of a mahogany case containing two duelling pistols with their accompanying ammunition, G. D. gun caps, powder-horn, swabs and rammers, and it past eleven o'clock at night, would have excited but little interest to the average darky—especially one unaccustomed to the portents and outcomes of such proceedings.

Not so Alec, who had absorbed the situation at a glance. He had accompanied his master on two such occasions—one at Bladensburg and the other on a neighboring estate, when the same suggestive tokens had been visible, except that those fights took place at daybreak, and after every requirement of the code had been complied with, instead of under the flare of smoking pine torches and within a step of the contestant's front door. He had, besides, a most intimate knowledge of the contents of the mahogany case, it being part of his duty to see that these defenders of the honor of all the Rutters—and they had been in frequent use—were kept constantly oiled and cleaned. He had even cast some bullets the month before under the colonel's direction. That he was present to-night was entirely due to the fact that having made a short cut to the kitchen door in order to hurry some dishes, he had by the merest chance, and at the precise psychological moment, run bump up against the warlike party just before they had reached the duelling ground. This was a well-lighted path but a stone's throw from the porch, and sufficiently hidden by shrubbery to be out of sight of the ballroom windows.

The next moment the old man was in full cry to the house. He had heard the beginning of the trouble while he was carrying out St. George's orders regarding the two half-emptied bowls of punch and understood exactly what was going to happen, and why.

“Got de colonel's pistols!” he choked as he sped along the gravel walk toward the front door the quicker to reach the ballroom—“and Marse Harry nothin' but a baby! Gor-a-Mighty! Gor-a-Mighty!” Had they all been grown-ups he might not have minded—but his “Marse Harry,” the child he brought up, his idol—his chum!—“Fo' Gawd, dey sha'n't kill 'im—dey sha'n't!—DEY SHA'N'T!!”

He had reached the porch now, swung back the door, and with a sudden spring—it was wonderful how quick he moved—had dashed into the ballroom, now a maze of whirling figures—a polka having struck up to keep everybody occupied until the reel was finally made up.

“Marse Talbot!—Marse Talbot!” All domestic training was cast aside, not a moment could be lost—“All on ye!—dey's murder outside—somebody go git de colonel!—Oh, Gawd!—somebody git 'im quick!”

Few heard him and nobody paid any attention to his entreaties; nor could anybody, when they did listen, understand what he wanted—the men swearing under their breath, the girls indignant that he had blocked their way. Mrs. Rutter, who had seen his in-rush, sat aghast. Had Alec, too, given way, she wondered—old Alec who had had full charge of the wine cellar for years! But the old man pressed on, still shouting, his voice almost gone, his eyes bursting from his head.

“Dey's gwineter murder Marse Harry—I seen 'em! Oh!—whar's de colonel! Won't somebody please—Oh, my Gawd!—dis is awful! Don't I tell ye dey's gwineter kill Marse Harry!”

Mrs. Cheston, sitting beside Kate, was the only one who seemed to understand.

“Alec!” she called in her imperious voice—“Alec!—come to me at once! What is the matter?”

The old butler shambled forward and stood trembling, the tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Yes, mum—I'm yere! Oh, can't ye git de colonel—ain't nobody else'll do—”

“Is it a duel?”

“Yes, mum! I jes' done see 'em! Dey's gwineter kill my Marse Harry!”

Kate sprang up. “Where are they?” she cried, shivering with fear. The old man's face had told the story.

“Out by de greenhouse—dey was measurin' off de groun'—dey's got de colonel's pistols—you kin see 'em from de winder!”

In an instant she had parted the heavy silk curtains and lifted the sash. She would have thrown herself from it if Mrs. Cheston had not held her, although it was but a few feet from the ground.

“Harry!” she shrieked—an agonizing shriek that reverberated through the ballroom, bringing everybody and everything to a stand-still. The dancers looked at each other in astonishment. What had happened? Who had fainted?

The colonel now passed through the room. He had been looking after the proper handling of the famous Madeira, and had just heard that Alec wanted him, and was uncertain as to the cause of the disturbance. A woman's scream had reached his ears, but he did not know it was Kate's or he would have quickened his steps.

Again Kate's voice pierced the room:

“Harry! HARRY!”—this time in helpless agony. She had peered into the darkness made denser by the light rain, and had caught a glimpse of a man standing erect without his coat, the light of the torches bringing his figure into high relief—whose she could not tell, the bushes were so thick.

The colonel brushed everybody aside and pulled Kate, half fainting, into the room. Then he faced Mrs. Cheston.

“What has happened?” he asked sharply. “What is going on outside?”

“Just what I told you. Those fools are out there trying to murder each other!”

Two shots in rapid succession rang clear on the night air.

The colonel stood perfectly still. No need to tell him now what had happened, and worse yet, no need to tell him what WOULD happen if he showed the slightest agitation. He was a cool man, accustomed to critical situations, and one who never lost his head in an emergency. Only a few years before he had stopped a runaway hunter, with a girl clinging to a stirrup, by springing straight at the horse's head and bringing them both to the ground unhurt. It only required the same instantaneous concentration of all his forces, he said to himself, as he gazed into old Alec's terror-stricken face framed by the open window. Once let the truth be known and the house would be in a panic—women fainting, men rushing out, taking sides with the combatants, with perhaps other duels to follow—Mrs. Rutter frantic, the ball suddenly broken up, and this, too, near midnight, with most of his guests ten miles and more from home.

Murmurs of alarm were already reaching his ears: What was it?—who had fainted?—did the scream come from inside or outside the room?—what was the firing about?

He turned to allay Kate's anxiety, but she had cleared the open window at a bound and was already speeding toward where she had seen the light on the man's shirt. For an instant he peered after her into the darkness, and then, his mind made up, closed the sash with a quick movement, flung together the silk curtains and raised his hand to command attention.

“Keep on with the dance, my friends; I'll go and find out what has happened—but it's nothing that need worry anybody—only a little burnt powder. Alec, go and tell Mr. Grant, the overseer, to keep better order outside. In the meantime let everybody get ready for the Virginia reel; supper will be served in a few minutes. Will you young gentlemen please choose your partners, and will some one of you kindly ask the music to start up?”

Slowly, and quite as if he had been called to the front door to welcome some belated guest, he walked the length of the room preceded by Alec, who, agonized at his master's measured delay, had forged ahead to open the door. This closed and they out of sight, the two hurried down the path.

Willits lay flat on the ground, one arm stretched above his head. He had measured his full length, the weight of his shoulder breaking some flower-pots as he fell. Over his right eye gaped an ugly wound from which oozed a stream of blood that stained his cheek and throat. Dr. Teackle, on one knee, was searching the patient's heart, while Kate, her pretty frock soiled with mud, her hair dishevelled, sat crouched in the dirt rubbing his hands—sobbing bitterly—crying out whenever Harry, who was kneeling beside her, tried to soothe her:—“No!—No!—My heart's broken—don't speak to me—go away!”

The colonel, towering above them, looked the scene over, then he confronted Harry, who had straightened to his feet on seeing his father.

“A pretty piece of work—and on a night like this! A damnable piece of work, I should say, sir!... Has he killed him, Teackle?”

The young doctor shook his head ominously.

“I cannot tell yet—his heart is still beating.”

St. George now joined the group. He and Gilbert and the other seconds had, in order to maintain secrecy, been rounding up the few negroes who had seen the encounter, or who had been attracted to the spot by the firing.

“Harry had my full consent, Talbot—there was really nothing else to do. Only an ounce of cold lead will do in some cases, and this was one of them.” He was grave and deliberate in manner, but there was an infinite sadness in his voice.

“He did—did he?” retorted the colonel bitterly. “YOUR full consent! YOURS! and I in the next room!” Here he beckoned to one of the negroes who, with staring eyeballs, stood gazing from one to the other. “Come closer, Eph—not a whisper, remember, or I'll cut the hide off your back in strips. Tell the others what I say—if a word of this gets into the big house or around the cabins I'll know who to punish. Now two or three of you go into the greenhouse, pick up one of those wide planks, and lift this gentleman onto it so we can carry him. Take him into my office, doctor, and lay him on my lounge. He'd better die there than here. Come, Kate—do you go with me. Not a syllable of this, remember, Kate, to Mrs. Rutter, or anybody else. As for you, sir”—and he looked Harry squarely in the face—“you will hear from me later on.”

With the same calm determination, he entered the ballroom, walked to the group forming the reel, and, with a set smile on this face indicating how idle had been everybody's fears, said loud enough to be heard by every one about him:

“Only one of the men, my dear young people, who has been hurt in the too careless use of some firearms. As to dear Kate—she has been so upset—she happened unfortunately to see the affair from the window—that she has gone to her room and so you must excuse her for a little while. Now everybody keep on with the dance.”

With his wife he was even more at ease. “The same old root of all evil, my dear,” he said with a dry laugh—“too much peach brandy, and this time down the wrong throats—and so in their joy they must celebrate by firing off pistols and wasting my good ammunition,” an explanation which completely satisfied the dear lady—peach brandy being capable of producing any calamity, great or small.

But this would not do for Mrs. Cheston. She was a woman who could be trusted and who never, on any occasion, lost her nerve. He saw from the way she lifted her eyebrows in inquiry, instead of framing her question in words, that she fully realized the gravity of the situation. The colonel looked at her significantly, made excuse to step in front of her, his back to the room, and with his forefinger tapping his forehead, whispered:

“Willits.”

The old lady paled, but she did not change her expression.

“And Harry?” she murmured in return.

The colonel kept his eyes upon her, but he made no answer. A hard, cold look settled on his face—one she knew—one his negroes feared when he grew angry.

Again she repeated Harry's name, this time in alarm:

“Quick!—tell me—not killed?”

“No—I wish to God he were!”