Despite the secrecy with which the second meeting was arranged, some
three score spectators were already assembled at the duelling ground
when Broderick and Terry arrived. It was not far from where they had met
on the previous morning, but no officer appeared to interrupt their
combat. Both men looked nervous and worn, especially Broderick, who had
spent the night in a flea-infested hut on the ocean shore at the
suggestion of his seconds who feared further interference. Terry had
fared better, being quartered at the farm house of a friend who provided
breakfast and a flask of rum.

The seconds tossed for position and those of Broderick won. The choice
of pistols, too, was left to chance, which favored Terry. Joe McKibben
thought he saw a smile light the faces of Benham and Hayes, a smile of
secret understanding. The French pistols were produced and Hayes, with
seeming care, selected one of them. McKibben took the other. He saw
Benham whisper something to Terry as the latter grasped his weapon, saw
the judge's eyes light with a sudden satisfaction.

"You will fire between the words 'one' and 'two'," Colton announced
crisply. "Are you ready, gentlemen?"

Terry answered "Yes" immediately. Broderick, who was endeavoring to
adjust the unfamiliar stock of the foreign pistol to his grasp, did not
hear. McKibben repeated, "Are you ready, Dave?" in an undertone.
Broderick looked up with nervous and apologetic haste, "Yes, yes, quite
ready," he replied.

"One," called Colton. Broderick's pistol spoke. Discharged apparently
before aim could be taken; his bullet struck the ground at Terry's feet.
Broderick, now defenseless, waited quietly. "Two," the word came. Terry,
who had taken careful aim, now fired. Broderick staggered, recovered
himself. His face was distorted with pain. Slowly he sank to one knee;
sidewise upon his elbow, then lay prone.

* * * * *

It was Sunday, September 18th. In the plaza a catafalque had been
erected, draped in black. Upon it stood a casket covered with flowers.
An immense crowd was about it, strangely silent. Across the platform a
constant stream of people filed, each stopping a moment to gaze at a
face that lay still and peaceful, seemingly composed in sleep. It was a
keen and striking face; the forehead bespoke intellect and high resolve;
the jaw and chin indomitable; aggressive bravery. Over all there was a
stamp of sadness and of loneliness that caught one's