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.