tically, through the lapse of dim Time. Two
gentlemen stript to the shirt and waistband; in two hands of each a
rapier and dagger clutched; their looks sufficiently serious! The
seconds, having stript, equipt, and fairly overhauled and certified
them, are just about retiring from the measured fate-circle, not without
indignation that _they_ are forbidden to fight. Two gentlemen in this
alarming posture; of whom the Universe knows, has known, and will know
nothing, except that they were of choleric humor, and assisted in the
Netherlands wars! They are evidently English human creatures, in the
height of silent fury and measured circuit of fate; whom we here audibly
name once more, Sir Hatton Cheek, Sir Thomas Dutton, knights both,
soldadoes both. Ill-fated English human creatures, what horrible
confusion of the pit is this?

Dutton, though in suppressed rage, the seconds about to withdraw, will
explain some things if a word were granted, "No words," says the other;
"stand on your guard!" brandishing his rapier, grasping harder his
dagger. Dutton, now silent too, is on his guard. Good heavens! after
some brief flourishing and flashing,--the gleam of the swift clear steel
playing madly in one's eyes,--they, at the first pass, plunge home on
one another; home, with beak and claws; home to the very heart! Cheek's
rapier is through Dutton's throat from before, and his dagger is through
it from behind,--the windpipe miraculously missed; and, in the same
instant, Dutton's rapier is through Cheek's body from before, his dagger
through his back from behind,--lungs and life _not_ missed; and the
seconds have to advance, "pull out the four bloody weapons," disengage
that hell-embrace of theirs. This is serious enough! Cheek reels, his
life fast-flowing; but still rushes rabid on Dutton, who merely parries,
skips, till Cheek reels down, dead in his rage. "He had a bloody burial
there that morning," says my ancient friend. He will assist no more in
the Netherlands or other wars.

Such scene does history disclose, as in sunbeams, as in blazing
hell-fire, on Calais sands, in the raw winter morning; then drops the
blanket of centuries, of everlasting night, over it, and passes on
elsewhither. Gallant Sir Hatton Cheek lies buried there, and Cecil of
Wimbledon, son of Burleigh, will have to seek another superior officer.
What became of the living Dutton afterwards, I have never to this moment
had the least hint.

From Blackwood's