inn on our way
to the little meadow. The eastern sky was already tinged with crimson,
and the blood-red lances across the heavens told of the coming dawn.
The air was fresh and cool as it blew up the river from the bay, and
our lungs drew in great draughts of it as we felt the breeze in our
faces.

"A splendid morning to die on," said Harry Gresham.

"And to live on, too," I replied.

"Stop your croaking, Gresham," put in Dick Ringgold. We walked on
silently to the meadow, where we found that we were the first to
arrive.

Though I have stood on many a field of honour since that day, though I
have felt the bullet tearing and burning its way through the flesh,
and the sudden, sharp pain of the sword thrust, I shall never forget
that encounter on the meadow beside the Elk, when I first faced the
muzzle of a hostile pistol, and knew that the will behind it sought my
life.

It was not fear that I felt as I stood there, waiting for the coming
of my adversary, for fear has always been foreign to my family, but a
sort of secret elation. For that day, if I survived, though the down
upon my lip was as yet imperceptible, I could take my place as a man
among men. No longer would my boyish face keep me out of the councils
of my elders, but I would have the right to take my stand and ruffle
it with the best of them all. I was there to win my spurs as a man
and a duellist, and to show to all the world that I had the courage of
my race. For then, as it has ever been in the fair province of
Maryland, we love above all else courage in a man; and so it was I
waited with impatience Rodolph's approach, for it meant the casting
off of the boy and the making of the man.

We did not have long to wait, for Rodolph and his seconds soon
followed us down the path, and each party saluted. Then Captain Brooke
and Dick Ringgold measured off the paces, and threw for the choice of
positions. Dick won, and I found myself standing near a small sapling,
with my back to the rising sun, which as yet had not climbed over the
tree tops, and so did not interfere with Rodolph's position. Facing
me, twelve paces away, stood Rodolph, his dark, swarthy face darker,
more Indian-like, and forbidding than ever; behind him stretched away
the small glade, and the smooth green waters of the river, as they
wound their way between the tall forests on either side. I remember
watching a wild duck as he went swiftly flying down the Elk, when Dick
Ringgold's "Are yo