“Thank you: many thanks,” replied the colonel, with an expression of disappointment. “Then I had better prepare the letter?”
“Carta por senhor commandante,” interrupted a Portuguese, presenting a letter to the colonel; “O senhor embaixo; queir risposta.”
The colonel opened the letter, which contained Mr Sullivan’s challenge,—pistols—to-morrow morn, at daylight—one mile on the road to Machico.
The colonel’s countenance changed two or three shades less yellow as he read the contents: recovering himself with a giggle, he handed the letter to Captain Carrington. “You see, captain, the gentleman has saved me the trouble—He, he, he! these little affairs are common to gentlemen of our profession—He, he! and since the gentleman wishes it, why, I presume—He, he! that we must not disappoint him.”
“Since you are both of one mind, I think there will be some business done,” observed Mr S—. “I perceive that he is in earnest by the place named for the meeting. We generally settle our affairs of honour in the Loo-fields; but I suppose he is afraid of interruption.—They want an answer, colonel.”
“Oh! he shall have one,” replied the colonel, tittering with excitement; “he shall have one. What hour does he say?”
“Oh! we will arrange all that. Come, colonel,” said Captain Carrington, taking him familiarly by the arm, and leading him away.
The answer was despatched, and they sat down to dinner. Many were the friendly and encouraging glasses of wine drank with the colonel, who recovered his confidence, and was then most assiduous in his attentions to the ladies to prove his perfect indifference. He retired at an early hour nevertheless.
In the mean time Mr Sullivan had received the answer, and had retired to his counting-house, to arrange his affairs in case of accident. He had not seen his wife since the fracas. And now we will leave them both for awhile, and make a few remarks upon duelling.
Most people lament, many abuse the custom as barbarous; but barbarous it is not, or it would not be necessary in a state of high civilisation. It is true that by the practice we offend laws human and divine; but at the same time, it must be acknowledged, that neither law nor religion can keep society in such good order, or so restrain crime. The man who would defy the penalty of the law, and the commandments of his God against seduction, will, however pause in his career when he finds that there are brothers to avenge an injured sister. And why so?—because in this world we live as it were in a tavern, careless of what the bill is which we run up, but dreading the day of reckoning, which the pistol of our adversary may bring at once. Thus duelling may be considered as a necessary evil, arising out of our wickedness; a crime in itself rare in occurrence, but which prevents others of equal magnitude from occurring every day; and until the world is reformed, nothing can prevent it. Men will ever be governed by the estimation of the world: and until the whole world decide against duelling—until it has become the usage to offer the other cheek upon the first having been smitten, then, and not till then, will the practice be discontinued. When a man refuses to fight a duel, he is stigmatised as a coward, his company is shunned; and, unless he is a wretch without feeling, his life becomes a burden. Men have refused from purely conscientious motives, and have subsequently found themselves so miserable from the neglect and contumely of the world, that they have backslided, and have fought to recover their place in society. There have been some few, very few, who, having refused from conscientious motives, have adhered to these resolutions, because they feared God and not man. There was more courage in their refusal than if they had run the gauntlet of a hundred duels; a moral courage, which is most rare, preferring the contempt of man to the wrath of God. It is, however, the most trying situation on this side of the grave. To refuse to fight a duel, is in fact to obey the stern injunction, “leave all, and follow me.”