ivers on their boxes, the
doctors, the gigantic Texan, all looming large and spectral-like through
the still lingering mist, while the streamers of Spanish moss hanging
from the cypresses around were appropriate drapery for such a scene.

In the midst of the death-like silence a voice broke in, coming from the
top of a tall cypress standing near. Strange and wild, it was enough
not only to startle, but awe the stoutest heart. A shrill, continued
cachinnation, which, though human-like, could scarce be ascribed to
aught human, save the laughter of a maniac.

It frightened no one there, all knowing what it was--the cackling cry of
the white-headed eagle.

As it ended, but before its echoes had ceased reverberating among the
trees, another sound, equally awe-inspiring, woke the echoes of the
forest further down. This, the _whoo-whoo-whooa_ of the great southern
owl, seemingly a groan in answer to the eagle's laugh.

In all countries, and throughout all ages, the hooting of the owl has
been superstitiously dreaded as ominous of death, and might have
dismayed our duellists, had they been men of the common kind of courage.
Neither were, or seemed not to be; for, as the lugubrious notes were
still echoing in their ears, they advanced, and with rapiers upraised,
stood confronting each other, but one look on their faces, and one
thought in their hearts--"_to kill_!"

CHAPTER SEVEN.

A DUEL "TO THE DEATH."

The duellists stood confronting one another, in the position of
"salute," both hands on high grasping their swords at hilt and point,
the blades held horizontally. The second of each was in his place, on
the left hand of his principal, half a pace in advance. But a moment
more all were waiting for the word. The second of the challenger had
the right to give it, and Crittenden was not the man to make delay.

"_Engage_!" he cried out, in a firm clear voice, at the same time
stepping half a pace forward, Duperon doing the same. The movement was
made as a precaution against foul play; sometimes, though not always
intended. For in the excitement of such a moment, or under the
impatience of angry passion, one or other of the principals may close
too quickly--to prevent which is the duty of the seconds.

Quick, at the "engage," both came to "guard" with a collision that
struck sparks from the steel, proving the hot anger of the adversaries.
Had they been cooler, they would have crossed swords quietly. But when,