he face.

Instantly there was a dead silence, in which the sound seemed to linger
intolerably. He had grown very white, and his eyes were wicked.

"I am obliged to you, sir," he said. "You are some kind of ragged
gentleman, so no doubt you will give me satisfaction."

"When and where you please," I said sedately.

"Will you name your friend now?" he asked. "These matters demand quick
settlement."

To whom was I to turn? I knew nobody of the better class who would act
for me. For a moment I thought of Colonel Beverley, but his age and
dignity were too great to bring him into this squabble of youth. Then a
notion struck me.

"If you will send your friend to my man, John Faulkner, he will make
all arrangements. He is to be found any day in my shop."

With this defiance, I walked nonchalantly out of the dumbfoundered
group, found my horse, and rode homewards.

My coolness did not last many minutes, and long ere I had reached James
Town I was a prey to dark forebodings. Here was I, a peaceful trader,
who desired nothing more than to live in amity with all men, involved
in a bloody strife. I had sought it, and yet it had been none of my
seeking. I had graver thoughts to occupy my mind than the punctilios of
idle youth, and yet I did not see how the thing could have been
shunned. It was my hard fate to come athwart an obstacle which could
not be circumvented, but must be broken. No friend could help me in the
business, not Ringan, nor the Governor, nor Colonel Beverley. It was my
own affair, which I must go through with alone. I felt as solitary as a
pelican.

Remember, I was not fighting for any whimsy about honour, nor even for
the love of Elspeth. I had openly provoked Grey because the hostility
of the young gentry had become an intolerable nuisance in my daily
life. So, with such pedestrian reasons in my mind, I could have none of
the heady enthusiasm of passion. I wanted him and his kind cleared out
of my way, like a noisome insect, but I had no flaming hatred of him to
give me heart.

The consequence was that I became a prey to dismal fear. That bravery
which knows no ebb was never mine. Indeed, I am by nature timorous, for
my fancy is quick, and I see with horrid clearness the incidents of a
peril. Only a shamefaced conscience holds me true, so that, though I
have often done temerarious deeds, it has always been because I feared
shame more than the risk, and my knees have ever been knocking together
and my