It was on the evening of the fourth day since the duel, young Osterberg, after a visit to the wounded man, returned hastily to George's rooms.
Helmar looked up as his friend entered.
"Well, what news? No, never mind, I read it in your face," he said, as he noticed Charlie's pallor and troubled face. "He is dead?"
Osterberg shook his head.
"Not as bad as that, thank God, but I fear he cannot live. Dr. Hertz was there when I arrived, and before I left, he said the patient was rapidly sinking, and that it was only a question of forty-eight hours; but," he added hurriedly, as he noticed the horrified expression of the listener's face, "he also told me to say to you that, should he die, you will in no way be blamed. You cannot be held responsible. Had you not wounded him, he would probably have killed you."
His friend paid no heed to these consoling words, but, resting his face on his hand, gazed out of the window lost in deep thought.
Receiving no reply, Charlie stepped towards him, and, laying his hand gently on his shoulder, said—
"Cheer up, George, this affair is through no fault of yours. If anybody's, the blame is mine. I should have known better than to have noticed his words, but——" And he broke off with a troubled look in his eyes.
"No, no, Charlie, no blame attaches to you or, for that matter, to me. According to the duelling laws of the country we are in the right—it isn't that. You don't understand."
He paused for a moment, then suddenly looked up into the anxious young face at his side.