uation it were easy to believe this
something greater than single combat between two men. One might have
thought it was a duel of a people against another people, race against
race, the South against the North.

Was it these thoughts which we have just expressed that filled Roland's
mind and plunged him into that melancholy revery.

Probably not; the fact is, for an instant he seemed to have forgotten
seconds, duel, adversary, lost as he was in contemplation of this
magnificent spectacle. M. de Barjols' voice aroused him from this
poetical stupor.

"When you are ready, sir," said he, "I am."

Roland started.

"Pardon my keeping you waiting, sir," said he. "You should not have
considered me, I am so absent-minded. I am ready now."

Then, a smile on his lips, his hair lifted by the evening breeze,
unconcerned as if this were an ordinary promenade, while his opponent,
on the contrary, took all the precaution usual in such a case, Roland
advanced straight toward M. de Barjols.

Sir John's face, despite his ordinary impassibility, betrayed a profound
anxiety. The distance between the opponents lessened rapidly. M. de
Barjols halted first, took aim, and fired when Roland was but ten paces
from him.

The ball clipped one of Roland's curls, but did not touch him. The young
man turned toward his second:

"Well," said he, "what did I tell you?"

"Fire, monsieur, fire!" said the seconds.

M. de Barjols stood silent and motionless on the spot where he had
fired.

"Pardon me, gentlemen," replied Roland; "but you will, I hope, permit me
to be the judge of the time and manner of retaliating. Since I have felt
M. de Barjols' shot, I have a few words to say to him which I could not
say before." Then, turning to the young aristocrat, who was pale and
calm, he said: "Sir, perhaps I was somewhat too hasty in our discussion
this morning."

And he waited.

"It is for you to fire, sir," replied M. de Barjols.

"But," continued Roland, as if he had not heard, "you will understand
my impetuosity, and perhaps excuse it, when you hear that I am a soldier
and General Bonaparte's aide-de-camp."

"Fire, sir," replied the young nobleman.

"Say but one word of retraction, sir," resumed the young officer. "Say
that General Bonaparte's reputation for honor and delicacy is such that
a miserable Italian proverb, inspired by ill-natured losers, cannot
reflect discredit on him. Say that, and I throw this weapon away to
grasp your han