p their spirits. He entertained
them with a narrative of the personal encounters he had witnessed, and
especially of one in which his principal had fallen on his face at the
first fire, and the antagonist had sprung into the air, and both had
lain dead as door-nails, and never moved, nor even winked, after that
single discharge.

Griffith sat under this chilling talk for more than an hour.

At last he rose gloomily, and said it was time to go.

"Got your tools, Doctor?" inquired the Major.

The surgeon nodded slightly. He was more discreet than his friend.

When they had walked nearly a mile in the snow, the Major began to
complain.

"The Devil!" said he; "this is queer walking. My boots are full of
water. I shall catch my death."

The surgeon smiled satirically, comparing silent Griffith's peril with
his second's.

Griffith took no notice. He went like Fortitude plodding to Execution.

Major Rickards fell behind, and whispered Mr. Islip,--

"Don't like his looks; doesn't march like a winner. A job for you or the
sexton, you mark my words."

* * * * *

They toiled up Scutchemsee Nob, and when they reached the top, they saw
Neville and his second, Mr. Hammersley, riding towards them. The pair
had halters as well as bridles, and, dismounting, made their nags fast
to a large blackthorn that grew there. The seconds then stepped forward,
and saluted each other with formal civility.

Griffith looked at the gray horse, and ground his teeth. The sight of
the animal in Neville's possession stirred up his hate, and helped to
steel his heart. He stood apart, still, pale, and gloomy.

The seconds stepped out fifteen paces, and placed the men. Then they
loaded two pair of pistols, and put a pistol in each man's hand.

Major Rickards took that opportunity to advise his principal.

"Stand sharp. Keep your arm close to your side. Don't fire too high. How
do you feel?"

"Like a man who must die, but will try to die in company."

The seconds now withdrew to their places; and the rivals held their
pistols lowered, but fixed their deadly eyes on each other.

The eye, in such a circumstance, is a terrible thing: it is literally a
weapon of destruction; for it directs the deadly hand that guides the
deadly bullet. Moreover, the longer and the more steadily the duellist
fixes his eye on his adversary, the less likely he is to miss.

Griffith was very pale, but dogged. Neville was serious,