Leonidas Force, after leaving Forest Rest, put spurs to his horse and galloped all the way to Greenbushes, only pausing when it became necessary to open a gate that crossed the road, by which chance the hard-pressed steed got a moment in which to recover his wind.

When he reached Greenbushes, he sprang from his saddle, threw the bridle to a boy who came up to take the horse, and hurried into the house.

His colored housekeeper came to ask him if he was going to stay home all night, or to return to Mondreer, so that she might know whether she was to get supper, and to make a fire in his bedroom.

Le told her that he should stay at home all night.

The woman went away to attend to his comforts.

Le opened the door of that little, oak-paneled parlor on the right of the hall of entrance, where there was always a fire kept alive for the master, and a round table covered with account books, piles of paper, bundles of pens and bottles of ink.

Le threw off his riding coat, hat and gloves, drew off his boots, thrust his feet into slippers, and dropped into the large, leather armchair before the table, and laid his head upon his folded arms on its top.

Le was not the least of a coward. He knew no fear. Yet he fully realized the awful gravity of the situation in which he had voluntarily placed himself. His Christian conscience began to trouble him.

“Thou shalt not kill!” it whispered to him.

He tried not to hear it.

“The dastardly villain ought to be punished,” he said to himself. “My uncle cannot call the beast out. He is a justice of the peace; he is a vestryman in the church; he is a husband and a father. He cannot fight the monster! And he has no son to act for him! I am his nearest male relative, and I have no ties to bind me and keep me from doing a man’s part in this matter; it seems my duty. I do not want to kill the wretch, though he deserves to die; I do not want to kill him! I think I would far rather he killed me! But I cannot help it! I must call him out, and he must take the risk! I must avenge Odalite!”

His conscience again spoke:

“Vengeance is mine, and I will repay, saith the Lord.”

Luke, an old servant attached to the plantation, came in and laid fresh logs on the fire, and then went out again.

But Le, absorbed in his argument with his own conscience, never noticed the man’s entrance or his exit.

“The die is cast now,” he said, in conclusion, “and I must abide the issue. The challenge is sent. The scoundrel is a soldier, and he will accept it! I must meet him! And, if I kill him, I must take the consequences in this world and—in the next!”

Martha, the housekeeper, came in with a large tray on which she had arranged her master’s supper. She set it down on a side table, while she removed the books and stationary from the center table and spread a white cloth over it. Then she set out his supper, and said:

“Do, please, young marster, try to eat somefin’. That racket at the church seems to hev upset yer so that yer look downright ill.”

Le was feverish and thirsty, and he drank cup after cup of tea, nearly as fast as the housekeeper could pour it out. But he could not eat a morsel.

“’Deed, I’m feared yer gwine to have some sort of a fever, young marster! ’Deed, I am!” said Martha, as she began to clear the table, after finding all her persuasions fruitless to induce the young man to eat.

When the woman was gone, Le replaced all the paper, pens and ink upon the table again, and sat down, poor fellow, to write his “last will and testament.”

It was very short and plain. He left all his real estate and personal property to his three dear cousins, Odalite, Wynnette and Elva, daughters of his dear relative, Abel Force, of Mondreer, share and share alike, subject only to some trifling legacies to old servants and to a bequest of ten thousand dollars to his dear friend Roland Bayard, of Forest Rest; and he constituted Abel Force and Roland Bayard joint executors.

Next he wrote farewell letters to his friends and relatives.

All this work kept him up long after midnight. When it was finished, he gathered all the documents together and took them with him up to his bedroom, and locked them in the upper drawers of his bureau.

Finally, with the guiltiest conscience, the darkest spirit and the heaviest heart that he had ever experienced in his young life, he laid himself down on his bed. He could not sleep, and he dared not pray. Never before had he laid down to rest without having prayed. But how could he pray now, when he was deliberately planning to break, and make others break, one of the most awful commandments in the decalogue?

So the boy lay awake through all the long and dreary night, waiting for the day. What would the day bring forth? Where would he be the next night?

“If it were only my life that was to be taken! Even if it were only my soul that was to be risked! But the awful fiat of the Most High to be broken! Purposely, deliberately broken! Oh, Heaven! how one man’s sin makes many men’s crimes!”

So thinking, so feeling, so suffering, Le passed the most miserable night of his whole life.

The gray light of the winter day dawned at last.

Then Le arose and slowly dressed himself.

Roland, he thought, would soon be with him, bringing the acceptance of his challenge and the program of the hostile meeting.

Slowly he descended the stairs and entered the parlor.

Early as it was, the window shutters had been opened, the fire kindled and the room put in order.

Le threw up the window sash to inhale the fresh air. It was keen and cold this winter morning, yet refreshing to his fevered head.

The sun was up and shining from a clear, blue sky upon the snow-covered earth, and the forest of pine beyond, and the grove of cedars, spruce, firs and other evergreens near the house.

Le closed the window at length, and sat down to wait for the coming of Roland Bayard.

Old Luke came in with oak logs to replenish the fire.

“Mornin’, young marster! Gettin’ colder, ain’t it? Shouldn’t wonder ef de crik didn’t froze ober ’fore night,” he said, as he laid the logs carefully on the blazing brands.

Le assented, in a low voice, scarcely knowing what had been said to him, or what he said.

The man retired, and was succeeded by the woman, Martha, who came in to set the table for her master’s breakfast.

“Mornin’, Marse Le! Hope as yer feel better’n yer did las’ night, dough, Lor’ knows, now I look at yer, yer doan look any better; yer looks wuss. ’Deed, Marse Le, yer ought to ’sult a doctor,” she said, as she opened the tablecloth and flirted it out to spread over the table, keeping her eyes on the young master all the time.

“I am not ill, Martha,” he said.

“Ain’t yer, now, Marse Le? Well, den, yer’s gwine to be, dat’s all,” was the encouraging comment.

She brought in the breakfast, and spread it temptingly out on the table, a thankless task, for, as before, Le could not be persuaded to choke himself by attempting to swallow a morsel of solid food; but he drank cup after cup full of strong coffee, as fast as the woman could pour it out.

“Kill yerself! ’Deed you will, Marse Le! Drinkin’ so much strong coffee an’ a-puckerin’ ob yer stummick up, ’stead o’ fillin’ ob it out wid bread and meat! Kill yerse’f! ’Deed yer will!” said Martha, as at last she cleared the table and left the room.

“Yes, sah! Dere he is in de little parlor!” Le heard her say, as she passed through the hall, to some one at the front door.

And in another moment the room door was thrown open, and Roland Bayard appeared.

“Well?” demanded Le, excitedly, as he started up to meet his friend.

“Well, I can’t find the sneak! I believe he has cut and run, that’s what I believe!” exclaimed Roland, snatching his hat from his head, flinging it angrily on the floor, and throwing himself into a chair.

“What!” cried Le, facing him.

“I say the beat has beat a retreat!”

“What do you mean?” inquired Le.

Then Roland, having recovered his breath, told Le the story of his fruitless adventure at the Calvert House.

“He keeps out of the way on purpose; but he shall not escape me!” exclaimed Le, drawing his breath hard.

“I only came to report to you and take orders for the next step,” said Roland.

“He still retains his room at the Calvert?” inquired Le.

“Oh, yes! And all his effects are there.”

“Then, dear boy, go back at once to the Calvert, and stay there until he returns, and then give him my note. Take up your lodgings at the house, if need be, until you discharge your mission,” said Le.

“Yes—yes—certainly—with pleasure—but——”

“But what?”

“If you could lend me the loan of a strong pair of boots, or, better still, a good saddle horse, it might help the cause a little,” replied Roland, laughingly extending both his feet to exhibit his own battered “Wellingtons.”

“What a beast I am!” cried Le, smiting his forehead with his open palm in self-disgust. “You have walked all this distance in my cause, while I have a dozen horses turning to stone for want of exercise in the stables there.”

And he snatched up an iron hand bell, that might have served for a country church or a steamboat, and rang it loudly.

Old Luke put in his gray head at the door.

“Saddle Jasper for Mr. Bayard, and bring him around to the door.”

“Yes, sah! Yere’s two ge’men axing for yer, Marse Le,” said the old man.

“Two gentlemen? Who are they? Let them come in,” said Le.

And, even as he spoke, two men entered the parlor, and, each laying a hand on the shoulder of the youth, said:

“You are my prisoner! Yield quietly. It will be best.”