oo,
having been several times engaged in affairs that resulted fatally. At
this period New Orleans was emphatically the city of the _duello_--for
this speciality, perhaps the most noted in the world.

As already said, Florence Kearney knew the sort of man he had to meet,
and this being his own first appearance in a duelling field, he might
well have been excused for feeling some anxiety as to the result. It
was so slight, however, as not to betray itself, either in his looks or
gestures. Confiding in his skill, gained by many a set-to with buttoned
foils, and supported, as he was, by the gallant young Kentuckian, he
knew nothing that could be called fear. Instead, as his antagonist
advanced towards the spot where he was standing, and he looked at the
handsome, yet sinister face--his thoughts at the same time reverting to
Luisa Valverde, and the insult upon him in her presence--his nerves, not
at all unsteady, now became firm as steel. Indeed, the self-confident,
almost jaunty air, with which his adversary came upon the ground, so far
from shaking them--the effect, no doubt, intended--but braced them the
more.

When the new-comers had advanced a certain distance into the meadow,
Crittenden, forsaking his stand under the tree, stepped out to meet
them, Kearney following a few paces behind.

A sort of quadruple bow was the exchanged salutation; then the
principals remained apart, the seconds drawing nigher to one another,
and entering upon the required conference.

Only a few words passed between them, as but few were required; the
weapons, distance, and mode of giving the word, having all been
pre-arranged.

There was no talk of apology--nor thought of it being either offered or
accepted. By their attitude, and in their looks, both the challenged
and challenger showed a full, firm determination to fight.

Duperon did not seem to care much one way or the other, and the
Kentuckian was not the sort to seek conciliation--with an insult such as
his captain had received calling for chastisement.

After the preliminaries were passed over, the seconds again separated--
each to attend upon his principal.

The young Irishman took off his coat, and rolled back his shirt sleeves
up to the elbow. Santander, on the other hand, who wore a red flannel
shirt under his ample _sacque_, simply threw aside the latter, leaving
the shirt sleeves as they were, buttoned around the wrist.

Everybody was now silent; the hackney-dr