ing through every rule of etiquette appertaining to
the duello. Without waiting for the customary salute beforehand, he
rushed at me sword in hand at the first sight of me like a savage. The
seconds interfered, and something like order was restored.

We advanced, retired, clashed swords, lunged, parried. "_Tierce_,
_quarte_, _quinte_, _flanconade_, single attack, double attack, lunge."

The Baron lunged furiously, I parried, and the Baron was disarmed.
Without waiting for my permission to pick up his sword, he, disregarding
all etiquette, made a sudden grab at it, and flew at me again in fury.
The Baron's fencing was very wild. He made three or four successive
desperate lunges at me, but was foiled every time. He grew more and more
furious; he had never been accustomed to be thus thwarted.

I felt my hand grow lame, however. It was like fencing with
Mephistopheles. To tire him out was impossible. His long wind was his
_forte_. I could only try to match the Baron's fury by the most guarded
coolness and self-possession. For some time past I had done nothing but
parry, waiting calmly for an opportunity. At length an opening presented
itself. I lunged, and the Baron fell, pierced right through the heart,
at the foot of one of his own stately oaks. He rolled up his eyes, and
after death still retained the same expression of ferocity that he wore
when living.

Thus died the last Baron ----. With his death the line became extinct,
and the property fell into other hands. Duelling even in those days was
fast falling into disuse, and I had to fly the country. I travelled for
many years, and at length returned home, but never from the day of the
duel up to the present time have I once neglected to wear the pious
relic of that poor Italian girl round my neck.

* * * * *

Bursts of applause followed the lawyer's recital. Mr. Blackdeed said it
ought to be dramatised; that it would "create a sensation," and "bring
down the house." The doctor shook his head gravely. The chairman, in a
short speech, proposed the health of the narrator, and expressed a hope
that he might be free from all such clients for the future.

"Shiver my timbers!" cried Captain Toughyarn, "if that yarn won't do for
the marines. Odds, blood and thunder, if I thought anyone but a tar
could have spun such a yarn as that. I tell you what it is, Hardcase,
you've mistaken your calling. You were meant for the sea."

"I hope, Captain