“Nonsense!” said Ipsden, after a moment of anxiety. “Give yourself no concern, sir,” said he, soothingly, to his antagonist—“a mere accident. Mare'chal, reload Mr. Gatty's pistol.”
“Excuse me, my lord—”
“Load his pistol directly,” said his lordship, sternly; “and behave like a gentleman.”
“My lord! my lord! but where shall I stand to be safe?”
“Behind me!”
The commander of division advanced reluctantly for Gatty's pistol.
“No, my lord!” said Gatty, “it is plain I am not a fit antagonist; I shall but expose myself—and my mother has separated us; I have lost her—if you do not win her some worse man may; but, oh! if you are a man, use her tenderly.”
“Whom?”
“Christie Johnstone! Oh, sir, do not make her regret me too much! She was my treasure, my consolation—she was to be my wife, she would have cheered the road of life—it is a desert now. I loved her—I—I—”
Here the poor fellow choked.