“Well, but suppose such a thing did happen?”
“Why, then, your conscience must tell you how to act. Perhaps you might interfere summarily to stop the proceedings, if the nature of the quarrel allowed it, or you might call upon the second who had so misconstrued his duty to withdraw and take no further part in the affair.
“I have often heard men say:—‘If I were acting second in an affair that was not so serious as to warrant a fatal issue, and were to see that my principal was about to be run through the body by a thrust that would certainly be fatal, I should not hesitate to knock up the swords. I could not resist the temptation; my feelings would be too strong for me. And as a matter of fact should I be very far wrong?’
“Yes, my friend, you would be absolutely wrong. You would be assuming the most onerous, the most terrible responsibility, and your action, though dictated by a praiseworthy impulse, would probably cause you the most bitter remorse.
“For consider:—you have arrested the sword which would have struck one of the opponents full in the body. The fight continues, and the man whose blow you intercepted with the praiseworthy motive, I quite admit, of preventing a mortal wound, is himself wounded or possibly killed. Fortune which favoured him at the outset suddenly turns against him and favours his opponent, perhaps with a lucky fluke, a thing which no foresight can prevent. What would your feelings be, when you saw stretched at your feet a man whose death you had caused by exposing him to a danger that he ought never to have encountered?
“A duel is always a miserable business; but when once you have faithfully and energetically done all that you can to prevent it, you must leave chance to decide between the combatants; only see that you take all the measures that are in your power to minimise the chances of a fatal issue.”
“It seems to me,” someone remarked, “that if, when a friend asks you to oblige him with your services, one were to think of all these innumerable responsibilities, one would invariably decline to act.”
“I don’t know whether one would always decline, but I know very well that the second’s part is one of unsparing self-sacrifice and devotion. I know that the man who undertakes it lightly cannot be too severely blamed, and I may add that I have never accepted the charge without passing a sleepless night haunted by the most gloomy forebodings. The second who conceives that he is merely required to be a passive witness, robs the part of all its meaning, all its value, all its dignity.
“You remember, I was speaking just now of the case of a second who acting on the spur of the moment instinctively intercepts a blow. I will give you an experience of my own.
“I was once acting for a friend in an affair of honour; I was thoroughly on the alert and carefully following the play of the points with that close attention, and perhaps I may say with that sureness of eye, which one acquires from some familiarity with sword-play, when I saw the opponent’s point coming straight at my friend’s body. Before I could think, I saw in an instant, as no one accustomed to fencing could fail to see, that the wound would be mortal. I knocked up the swords, and as the two men had got to close quarters, I called out:—‘On guard.’ But I had hardly done so, when I realised the full extent of my unconsidered action, and I felt—well, I really cannot tell you what my feelings were at that moment. Luckily for me, my friend, who was no less clumsy than brave, was not the man to leave me long in this cruel position. He fell a few seconds later seriously wounded.