“After all, he daren’t,” said Gallagher; “you driv the nail home, an’ clinched it. He daren’t do the dhirty thing—not a bit of it; it might get wind, an’ thin he’d have the kettle to his tail; besides, ma bohill, he wants to kill you anyhow; so he ought to be glad of the fine handy chance you’ve given him. He’s not a bad shot, they say. Never fear, Geordie, boy! he won’t back out this time; he must fight—he will fight. Ha! I told you so. See, yonder comes Apollo Belvidare! Holy Moses! how Phoebus shines!”
A knock—“Come in,”—the door was opened, and the aide-de-camp appeared in full uniform.
“To arrest me,” thought I, and my heart fell.
But no; the freshly written note spoke a different purpose, and I was relieved. It was the challenge.
“Lieutenant Randolph, I believe,” said the gentleman, advancing towards me.
I pointed to Gallagher, but made no reply.
“I am to understand that Captain Gallagher is your friend.”
I nodded assent.
The two faced each other, and the next instant were en rapport; talking the matter over as cool as cucumbers and sweet as sugar-plums.
From observation, I hazard this remark—that the politeness exhibited between the seconds in a duel cannot be surpassed by that of the most accomplished courtiers in the world.