“I knew you would. My best of friends,” cried Jericho, clapping Candituft on the shoulder.
“My friend’s honour is as dear—I don’t know if it isn’t dearer—than my own. You were quite safe in my hands.” Here Candituft pulled out his pocket-handkerchief, used it with considerable vigour; and after a seemly pause, said, “We fight at eight.”
“Eight!” shrieked Jericho, and he leaped as though already struck by the bullet.
“Everything is settled quite according to routine, and we’ll take a light, early dinner, and”—
“And do you mean, sir,” exclaimed Jericho, “to call yourself my friend, and want me to fight?”
“I do assure you, my dear sir, it is the most touching proof of—I will not stop at friendship—I will say, of affection. Yes, sir, brotherly affection,” said Candituft, a little moved by a sample of the emotion.
“Why, sir, I have heard you call duelling murder! Have you not?” cried Jericho.
Candituft was instantly explicit. “Murder it is, sir.”
“Fratricide!” exclaimed Jericho.
“There can be no doubt of it: slaughter carried among the brotherhood of man.”