The dapper little major glided to his side,—
"Bev., my boy, better be quiet. Eugene waited on me an hour ago and explained all the circumstances,—desired me to act as your friend. As I'd rather see you have a chance for your life in a duel, than to see you killed in such a house as this, like a dog, I consented. Bev., my boy, better be quiet."
"If you don't wish to fight, say so," and the phlegmatic Robert stepped forward, eyeing Beverly with a look of settled ferocity, that was not altogether pleasant to see,—"if you decline the duel, just say so in the presence of your friend, Major Barton. Just say no."
And Robert eyed Beverly from head to foot, as though it would afford him much pleasure to pitch him from the third story window.
"I will fight," said Beverly, pale and red by turns.
"Then I'll get your hat, and coat, and cloak," said the obliging major,—"they're in the next room. We must leave the house quietly, and there's a boat waiting for us, at the foot of the street, or the North River. We can cross to the Jersey shore, before morning breaks. It will be a nice little affair all among ourselves. By-the-bye, how about a surgeon?"
"Yes, a surgeon!" echoed Robert, turning to Eugene, who, seated by the table, rested his forehead against his hand.
"We will not need a surgeon," said Eugene, raising his face, from which all color of life had fled. "Because our fight is to the death."