t ragin'; they may round
on you--and"--he added, more slowly, "they seem to have just found out
who you are."

Even while he was speaking, Clarence, with his quickened ear, heard the
words, "One of Hamilton Brant's pups" "Just like his father," from
the group around the dead man. He did not hesitate, but walked coolly
towards them. Yet a certain fierce pride--which he had never known
before--stirred in his veins as their voices hushed and they half
recoiled before him.

"Am I to understand from my second, gentlemen," he said, looking round
the group, "that you are not satisfied?"

"The fight was square enough," said Pinckney's second in some
embarrassment, "but I reckon that he," pointing to the dead man, "did
not know who you were."

"Do you mean that he did not know that I was the son of a man proficient
in the use of arms?"

"I reckon that's about it," returned the second, glancing at the others.

"I am glad to say, sir, that I have a better opinion of his courage,"
said Clarence, lifting his hat to the dead body as he turned away.

Yet he was conscious of no remorse, concern, or even pity in his act.
Perhaps this was visible in his face, for the group appeared awed by
this perfection of the duelist's coolness, and even returned his formal
parting salutation with a vague and timid respect. He thanked the
deputy, regained the hotel, saddled his horse and galloped away.

But not towards the Rancho. Now that he could think of his future, that
had no place in his reflections; even the episode of Susy was forgotten
in the new and strange conception of himself and his irresponsibility
which had come upon him with the killing of Pinckney and the words
of his second. It was his dead father who had stiffened his arm and
directed the fatal shot! It was hereditary influences--which others
had been so quick to recognize--that had brought about this completing
climax of his trouble. How else could he account for it that he--a
conscientious, peaceful, sensitive man, tender and forgiving as he had
believed himself to be--could now feel so little sorrow or compunction
for his culminating act? He had read of successful duelists who were
haunted by remorse for their first victim; who retained a terrible
consciousness of the appearance of the dead man; he had no such feeling;
he had only a grim contentment in the wiped-out inefficient life,
and contempt for the limp and helpless body. He suddenly recalled his
callousness as a