ol fresh breeze swept over the level coast. The fields were assuming a
vernal greenness, the buds were swelling on hedge and tree, and the
vegetation of the summer that was to come--the summer that Lemercier
might never see--was springing from amid the brown remains of the autumn
that had gone, an autumn that he had passed with Athalie amid the
gayeties and gardens of Paris and Versailles.

At the distance of a mile he saw the strong square tower of Balcomie,
the residence of his antagonist. One side was involved in shadow, the
other shone redly in the rising sun, and the morning smoke from its
broad chimneys curled in dusky columns into the blue sky. The caw of the
rooks that followed the plough, whose shining share turned up the
aromatic soil, the merry whistle of the bonneted ploughboys, the voices
of the blackbird and the mavis, made him sad, and pleased was Lemercier
to leave behind him all such sounds of life, and reach the wild and
solitary place where the obelisk stood--a grim and time-worn relic of
the Druid ages or the Danish wars. A rough misshapen remnant of
antiquity it still remains to mark the scene of this hostile meeting,
which yet forms one of the most famous traditions of the East Neuk.

As Lemercier rode up he perceived a gentleman standing near the stone.
His back was towards him, and he was apparently intent on caressing his
charger, whose reins he had thrown negligently over his arm.

Lemercier thought he recognized the hat, edged with white feathers, the
full-bottomed wig, and the peculiar lacing of the white velvet coat, and
on the stranger turning he immediately knew his friend of the preceding
night.

"Bon jour, my dear sir," said Lemercier.

"A good morning," replied the other, and they politely raised their
little cocked hats.

"I had some misgivings when Monsieur did not return to me," said the
Frenchman. "Sir William has accepted my challenge?"

"Yes, Monsieur, and is now before you," replied the other, springing on
horseback. "_I am Sir William Hope, of Hopetoun_, and am here at your
service."

"You!" exclaimed the Frenchman, in tones of blended astonishment and
grief; "ah! unsay what you have said, I cannot point my sword against
the breast of my best benefactor--against him to whom I owe both honor
and life. Can I forget that night on the plains of Arras? Ah! my God!
what a mistake; what a misfortune. Ah! Athalie, to what have you so
unthinkingly urged me?"

"Think of her onl