Neville had already fought two duels, and been successful in both. He had confidence in his skill, and in his luck. His conscience too was tolerably clear: for he was the insulted person; and, if a bullet should remove this dangerous rival from his path, why all the better for him, and all the worse for the fool who had brought the matter to a bloody issue, though the balance of the lady's heart inclined his way.
He came in high spirits, and rode upon Kate Peyton's grey, to sting his adversary, and show his contempt of him.
Not so Griffith Gaunt. His heart was heavy, and foreboded ill. It was his first duel, and he expected to be killed. He had played a fool's game, and he saw it.
The night before the duel he tried hard to sleep: he knew it was not giving his nerves fair play to lie thinking all night. But coy sleep, as usual when most wanted, refused to come. At daybreak the restless man gave it up in despair, and rose and dressed himself. He wrote that letter to Catherine, little thinking it would fall into her hands while he lived. He ate a little toast and drank a pint of Burgundy; and then wandered listlessly about till Major Rickards, his second, arrived.
That experienced gentleman brought a surgeon with him; Mr. Islip.
Major Rickards deposited a shallow wooden box in the hall; and the two gentlemen sat down to a hearty breakfast.
Griffith took care of his guests, but beyond that spoke scarcely a word; and the surgeon, after a ghastly attempt at commonplaces, was silent too. Major Rickards satisfied his appetite first, and then, finding his companions dumb, set to work to keep up their spirits. He entertained them with a narrative of the personal encounters he had witnessed, and especially of one in which his principal had fallen on his face at the first fire, and the antagonist had sprung into the air, and both had lain dead as door nails, and never moved, nor even winked, after that single discharge.
Griffith sat under this chilling talk for more than an hour.
At last he rose gloomily, and said it was time to go.
"Got your tools, doctor?" inquired the Major.
The surgeon nodded slightly. He was more discreet than his friend.
When they had walked nearly a mile in the snow, the Major began to complain. "The devil!" said he; "this is queer walking. My boots are full of water. I shall catch my death."
The surgeon smiled satirically, comparing silent Griffith's peril with his second's.
Griffith took no notice. He went like Fortitude plodding to Execution.
Major Rickards fell behind, and whispered Mr. Islip: "Don't like his looks; doesn't march like a winner. A job for you or the sexton, you mark my words."
They toiled up Scutchemsee Nob, and when they reached the top, they saw Neville and his second, Mr. Hammersley, riding towards them. The pair had halters as well as bridles, and dismounting, made their nags fast to a large blackthorn that grew there. The seconds then stepped forward and saluted each other with formal civility.
Griffith looked at the grey horse, and ground his teeth. The sight of the animal in Neville's possession stirred up his hate, and helped to steel his heart. He stood apart, still, pale and gloomy.
The seconds stepped out fifteen paces, and placed the men. Then they loaded two pair of pistols, and put a pistol in each man's hand.
Major Rickards took that opportunity to advise his principal. "Stand sharp. Keep your arm close to your side. Don't fire too high. How do you feel?"
"Like a man who must die; but will try to die in company."
The seconds now withdrew to their places, and the rivals held their pistols lowered: but fixed their deadly eyes on each other.
The eye, in such a circumstance, is a terrible thing: it is literally a weapon of destruction; for it directs the deadly hand that guides the deadly bullet. Moreover the longer and the more steadily the duelist fixes his eye on his adversary, the less likely he is to miss.
Griffith was very pale, but dogged. Neville was serious, but firm. Both eyed each other unflinchingly.
"Gentlemen, are you ready?" asked Neville's second.
{"Yes."
{"Yes."
"Then," said Major Rickards, "you will fire when I let fall this handkerchief, and not before. Mark me, gentlemen; to prevent mistakes, I shall say 'one——two——three'——and then drop the handkerchief. Now then, once more, are you quite ready?"
{"Yes."
{"Yes."
"One———Two———Three."———He dropped the handkerchief, and both gentlemen fired simultaneously. Mr. Neville's hat spun into the air; Griffith stood untouched.
The bullet had passed through Neville's hat, and had actually cut a lane through his magnificent hair.
The seconds now consulted, and it was intimated to Griffith that a word of apology would be accepted by his antagonist.
Griffith declined to utter a syllable of apology.
Two more pistols were given the men.
"Aim lower," said Rickards.
"I mean to," said Griffith.
The seconds withdrew, and the men eyed each other: Griffith dogged and pale, as before, Neville not nearly so self-assured; Griffith's bullet, in grazing him, had produced the effect of a sharp, cold, current of air no wider than a knife. It was like death's icy forefinger laid on his head, to mark him for the next shot; as men mark a tree; then come again and fell it.
"One——two——three!"
And Griffith's pistol missed fire, but Neville's went off, and Griffith's arm sank powerless, and his pistol rolled out of his hand. He felt a sharp twinge, and then something trickle down his arm.
The surgeon and both seconds ran to him. "Nay, it is nothing," said he, "I shoot far better with my left hand than my right. Give me another pistol, and let me have fair play. He has hit me. And now I'll hit him."
Both seconds agreed this was impossible.
"It is the chance of war," said Major Rickards: "you cannot be allowed to take a cool shot at Mr. Neville. If you fire again, so must he."
"The affair may very well end here," said Mr. Hammersley. "I understand there was some provocation on our side; and on behalf of the party insulted I am content to let the matter end, Mr. Gaunt being wounded."
"I demand my second shot to his third," said Griffith sternly; "he will not decline, unless he is a poltroon as well as——what I called him."
The nature of this reply was communicated to Neville, and the seconds, with considerable reluctance, loaded two more pistols; and during the process Major Rickards glanced at the combatants.
Griffith, exasperated by his wound and his jealousy, was wearing out the chivalrous courage of his adversary; and the Major saw it. His keen eye noticed that Neville was getting restless, and looking confounded at his despised rival's pertinacity: and that Gaunt was more dogged, and more deadly.
"My man will kill yours this time," said he, quietly, to Neville's second. "I can see it in his eye; he is hungry; t'other has had his bellyful."
Once more the men were armed, and the seconds withdrew to their places, intimating that this was the last shot they would allow under any circumstances whatever.
"Are you both ready?"
{"Yes."
{"Yes."
A faint wail seemed to echo the response.
All heard it, and in that superstitious age believed it to be some mysterious herald of death.
It suspended even Major Packard's voice a minute. He recovered himself, however, and once more his soldier-like tones ran in the keen air:—
"One——"
There