llow," said I, "to talk of scenery and painters at
such a moment!"

"Not at all. Things are precious according to the tenure by which we
hold them. For my part, I do not know when I appreciated earth and sky
so heartily as this morning. _Tiens!_ here comes a carriage--our men,
no doubt."

"Are you a good shot?" I asked anxiously.

"Pretty well. I can write my initials in bullet-holes on a sheet of
notepaper at forty paces, or toss up half-a-crown as I ride at full
gallop, and let the daylight through it as it comes down."

"Thank Heaven!"

"Not so fast, my boy. De Caylus is just as fine a shot, and one of the
most skilful swordsmen in the French service."

"Ay, but the first fire is yours!"

"Is it? Well, I suppose it is. He struck the first blow, and so--here
they come."

"One more word, Dalrymple--did he really cheat you at _ecarte?_"

"Upon my soul, I don't know. He did hold the king very often, and there
are some queer stories told of him in Vienna by the officers of the
Emperor's Guard. At all events, this is not the first duel he has had to
fight in defence of his good-fortune!"

De Simoncourt now coming forward, we adjourned at once to the wood
behind the village. A little open glade was soon found; the ground was
soon measured; the pistols were soon loaded. De Caylus looked horribly
pale, but it was the pallor of concentrated rage, with nothing of the
craven hue in it. Dalrymple, on the contrary, had neither more nor less
color than usual, and puffed away at his cigar with as much indifference
as if he were waiting his turn at the pit of the Comedie Francaise. Both
were clothed in black from head to foot, with their coats buttoned
to the chin.

"All is ready," said De Simoncourt. "Gentlemen, choose your weapons."

De Caylus took his pistols one by one, weighed and poised them,
examined the priming, and finally, after much hesitation, decided.

Dalrymple took the first that came to hand.

The combatants then took their places--De Caylus with his hat pulled low
over his eyes; Dalrymple still smoking carelessly.

They exchanged bows.

"Major Dalrymple," said De Simoncourt, "it is for you to fire first."

"God bless you, Damon!" said my friend, shaking me warmly by the hand.

He then half turned aside, flung away the end of his cigar, lifted his
right arm suddenly, and fired.

I heard the dull thud of the ball--I saw De Caylus fling up his arms and
fall forward on the grass. I saw Dalrymple r