ft, time after time, that
nothing but the most ample and the most public _amende_ could be
received by his friend after what had taken place. Michael listened
impatiently, and interrupted the speaker in the midst of his oration.

"You are quite right, sir," said he. "If an apology is to be made, it
should be an ample one. But I decline to make any whatever. I am
prepared to give Mr Bellamy all the satisfaction that he asks. I will
refer you at once to my friend, and the sooner the affair is settled
the better."

"Well, but surely, Mr Allcraft, you must regret the strong
expression"--

"Which I uttered to your friend? By no means. I told him that he lied.
I repeat the word to you. I would say it in his teeth again if he
stood here. What more is necessary?"

"Nothing," said the gentleman, certainly unprepared for Michael's
resolution. "Nothing; name your friend, sir."

Michael had already fixed upon a second, and he told his name. His
visitor went to seek him, and the poor bewildered man rubbed his hands
gleefully, as though he had just saved his life, instead of having
placed it in such fearful jeopardy.

That day passed like a dream. The meeting was quickly arranged. Six
o'clock on the following morning was the hour fixed. The place was a
field, the first beyond the turnpike gate, and within a mile of the
city. As soon as Michael made sure of the duel, he saw his
confidential clerk. His name was Burrage. He had been a servant in the
banking-house for forty years, and had known Michael since his birth.
It was he who gave the newspaper into Allcraft's hands, on the first
arrival of the latter at the bank that morning. He was a quiet old man
of sixty, an affectionate creature, and as much a part of the
banking-house as the iron chest, the desk, the counter, or any other
solid fixture. He stepped softly into his master's room after he had
been summoned there, and he gazed at his unhappy principal as a father
might at his own child in misfortune--a beloved and favourite child.

"You are not well this morning, sir," said Burrage most respectfully.
"You look very pale and anxious."

"My looks belie me, Burrage. I am very well. I have not been so well
for years. I am composed and happy. I have been ill, but the time is
past. How old are you, Burrage?"

"Turned threescore, sir; old enough to die."

"Die--die! death is a sweet thing, old man, when it comes to the
care-worn. I have had my share of trouble."

"Too mu