"Charles, are you prepared for a mortal duel?"
"Perfectly," said Hoffland, with great simplicity.
"Have you made your will?"
"My will! Fie, Mr. Lawyer! Why, I am a minor."
"Minors make wills," said Mowbray; "and I advise you, if you are determined to encounter Mr. Denis, to make your will, and put in writing whatever you wish done."
"But what have I to leave to any one?" said Hoffland, affecting annoyance. "Ah, yes!" he added, "I am richer than I supposed. Well, now, this terrible affair may take place before I can make my arrangements; so I will, with your permission, make a nuncupative will—I believe nuncupative is the word, but I am not sure."
Mowbray sighed; he found himself powerless before this incorrigible light-heartedness, and had not the resolution to check it. He began to reflect wistfully upon the future: he already saw that boyish face pale and bloody, but still smiling—that slender figure stretched upon the earth—a mere boy, dead before his prime.
Hoffland went on, no longer laughing, but uttering sighs, and affecting sudden and profound emotion.
"This is a serious thing, Ernest," he said; "when a man thinks of his will, he stops laughing. I beg therefore that you will not laugh, nor interrupt me, while I dispose of the trifling property of which I am possessed."
Mowbray sighed.