“I suppose you are determined upon fighting?” said the major, knowing that, there was not much chance of adjusting the quarrel.
“I have no particular wish for it,” modestly responded Maurice. “If Mr Calhoun will apologise for what he has said, and also what he has done—”
“He ought to do it: he began the quarrel!” suggested several of the bystanders.
“Never!” scornfully responded the ex-captain. “Cash Calhoun ain’t accustomed to that sort of thing. Apologise indeed! And to a masquerading monkey like that!”
“Enough!” cried the young Irishman, for the first time showing serious anger; “I gave him a chance for his life. He refuses to accept it: and now, by the Mother of God, we don’t both leave this room alive! Major! I insist that you and your friends withdraw. I can stand his insolence no longer!”
“Ha—ha—ha!” responded the Southerner, with a yell of derisive laughter; “a chance for my life! Clear out, all of ye—clear out; and let me at him!”
“Stay!” cried the major, hesitating to turn his back upon the duellist. “It’s not quite safe. You may fancy to begin your game of touch-trigger a second too soon. We must get out of doors before you do. Besides, gentlemen!” he continued, addressing himself to those around him, “there should be some system about this. If they are to fight, let it be fair for both sides. Let them be armed alike; and go at it on the square!”
“By all means!” chorused the half-score of spectators, turning their eyes towards the disputants, to see if they accepted the proposal.
“Neither of you can object?” continued the major, interrogatively.
“I sha’n’t object to anything that’s fair,” assented the Irishman—“devil a bit!”