y invoked. He went about his preparations for the meeting in an
exaltation of spirit, such as he had never before experienced.
Paradoxical as it may seem, absurd as it really was, he was sustained,
uplifted, by the sense of immolating himself upon the altar of an ideal
cause. He was about to do an ideally evil thing, to the accomplishment
of an ideally evil end. Insane as this feeling was, it was his
inspiration, and he felt himself, for the first time in his life, acting
consistently, courageously, confidently.

The meeting took place on a remote, barren hillside, on the edge of a
dead forest whose gaunt stems stood upright, or leaned against each
other, a weird, unearthly company. As Dirke arrived with his second,--a
saturnine Kentuckian, with a duelling record of his own,--he glanced
about the desolate spot thinking it well chosen. Only one feature of the
scene struck him as incongruous. It was a prickly poppy standing there,
erect and stiff, its coarse, harsh stem and leaves repellent enough, yet
bearing on its crest a single flower, a wide white silken wonder,
curiously at variance with the spirit of the scene. Dirke impatiently
turned away from the contemplation of it, which had for an instant
fascinated him, and faced, instead, the count, who was approaching from
below, accompanied by his friend and countryman.

Shots were to be exchanged but once, and though the principals were both
good shots, the seconds anticipated nothing serious. The count, for his
part, was not desirous of killing his adversary, and he had no reason to
suppose that the latter thirsted for his blood. He considered the
incident which had led to this unpleasant situation as a mere freak on
the part of this morose individual whom he had unfortunately run afoul
of. He had, indeed, moments of wondering whether the man were quite in
his right mind.

Dirke wore the ring, and he gloried in wearing it, as he took his place,
elate, exultant, yet perfectly self-contained.

"Are you ready?" the Kentuckian asked, and the sense of being "ready"
thrilled him through every nerve.

At the given signal, Dirke raised his pistol in deliberate, deadly aim.
De Lys saw it, and a subtle change swept his face, while he instantly
readjusted his own aim. In Dirke's countenance there was no change, no
slightest trace of any emotion whatever. Yet both seconds perceived, in
the flash of time allowed, that the combat was to be a mortal one, and
that it was Dirke who