"Yes. Let the weapons be pistols."
"When shall the meeting take place?"
"Let it be to-morrow morning, at sunrise. The quicker it is over, the better."
This determined upon, the friend went again to the second of
Everett, and completed all necessary arrangements for the duel.
It was midnight, and young doctor Lane sat alone in his chamber, beside a table, upon which were ink and paper. He had, evidently, made several attempts to write; and each time failed from some cause to accomplish his task. Several sheets of paper had been written upon, and thrown aside. Each of these bore the following words:—
"_My Dear Parents:—_When these lines are read by you, the hand that penned them will be cold and nerveless—"
Thus far the unhappy young man could go, but no farther. Imagination pictured too vividly the heart-stricken father who had so often looked down upon him when a boy with pride and pleasure, and the tender, but now agonized mother, as that appalling announcement met their eyes.
Again, for the fifth time, he took up his pen, murmuring in a low tone, yet with a resolute air,
"It must be done!"
He had again written the words:—