all his efforts
to come up with him, when my father turned round and stood.

"We are alone!" cried he; "there is none to interrupt us. Now, Barry
Rutledge, you or I, or both of us, mayhap, shall pass the night here!"
and, as he spoke, he drew forth his sword-cane from the walking-stick
that he carried.

"What! is that Carew? Are you Walter Carew?" said Rutledge, advancing
towards him.

"No nearer,--not a step nearer!--or, by Heaven! I 'll not answer for my
passion. Draw your sword, and defend yourself!"

"Why, this is sheer madness, Watty. What is your quarrel with me?"

"Do you ask me?--do you want to hear why I called you a scoundrel and a
slanderer?--or is it that I can brand you as both, at noon-day, and in a
crowd, adding coward to the epithets?"

"Come, come," said the other, with a sarcastic coolness that only
increased my father's rage. "You know, as well as any man, that these
things are not done in this fashion. I am easily found when wanted."

"Do you think that I will give you another day to propagate your
slander? No, by Heaven! not an hour!" And so saying, he rushed on,
probably to consummate the outrage by a blow. Rutledge, who was in full
dress, now drew his rapier, and the two steels crossed.

[Illustration: Not An Hour]

My father was a consummate swordsman; he had fought several times with
that weapon when abroad; and had he only been guided by his habitual
temper, nothing would have been easier for him than to overcome his
antagonist. So ungovernable, however, was his passion now, that he lost
almost every advantage his superior skill might have conferred.

[Illustration: The Duel]

As if determined to kill his enemy at any cost, he never stood on his
guard, nor parried a single thrust, but rushed wildly at him. Rutledge,
whose courage was equal to his coolness, saw all the advantage this gave
him; and, after a few passes, succeeded in running his sword through
my father's chest so that the point actually projected on the opposite
side. With a sudden jerk of his body, my father snapped the weapon in
two, and then, shortening his own to within about a foot of the point,
he ran Rutledge through the heart. One heavy groan followed, and he fell
dead upon his face.

My father drew forth the fragment from his own side, and then, stooping
down, examined the body of his adversary. His recollection of what
passed in that terrible moment was horribly distinct ever after. He
mentioned to him from