“Get your hat,” said Fitzgerald, as the Count left the saloon.
“I ave him in my pocket,” said Ampisand, pulling from his coat an opera hat, that answered the double purpose of a “bustle” and a beaver, and clapping it upon his head. The two lovers now stood at the outside door from which several steps led to the muddy street.
“Count Ampisand,” said Fitzgerald, “you are an imposter and a pitiful scoundrel. I have called you out to insult you. Now, sir, take that, and be off.” So saying, before the thunder-stricken Ampisand could reply, Fitzgerald seized him by the nose, and, after giving it no infant’s pull, presented his front to the street, and administered an impetus to his after body that carried him into a horse-pond in the middle of the road.
“I will ave the satisfacione, begar, Mr. Lieutenant to shoot you wid de small sword dis night,” said the Count, gathering himself up, and retreating to the two Golden Eagles in no small haste. Fitzgerald laughed aloud, and closing the door behind him, walked lazily toward the shore of the ocean. After walking for half an hour upon the wild sea beach, Fitzgerald turned his steps toward Mrs. Wilson’s for the purpose of bidding his cousin farewell.
Coming footsteps now aroused him from his reverie, and soon a young gentleman from the city, accompanied by a surgeon, and Count Ampisand, came up to him. A challenge was received and accepted, and Fitzgerald named the present as the only time. After much haggling about the unseasonableness of the hour, and the disturbance the duel might create in the vicinity of Mrs. Wilson’s,—on the part of the challenging party—the count, who had been refreshing his courage with some old port, prepared to meet his antagonist on the spot.
Small swords had been brought by Ampisand’s friend, and the surgeon, who was an acquaintance of Fitzgerald, undertook to act as his second. The gentle breeze was singing a lullaby to the ocean, and the sound of the distant viol broke upon their ears. The ground was now paced out—the principals were placed, and the words, one! two! three! guard! were given, and the duel commenced. For a few seconds the parties appeared to be equally matched, but at length the count, whose body seemed wonderfully to have increased in size since the insult, began to pant and blow like a porpoise out of water. Fitzgerald now caught the count’s sword in the fleshy part of his arm, and ran him through the body. The wounded man dropped his weapon, and fell heavily upon the ground. Fitzgerald and the surgeon ran up to him,—“Forgive me,” said the apparently dying man, whispering in Fitzgerald’s ear, “I loved Mary Howard, and would have borne her away from you, but now, alas, my prospects are blighted, and I must pay for my folly with my blood.”
“He does not bleed,” said the surgeon, mournfully.
“Alas, my friend is mortally wounded,” said the count’s second, putting a bottle of Scotch snuff to his mouth, instead of a phial of brandy. The wounded man grated his teeth violently, and rejected all aid. Lights now came from Mrs. Wilson’s toward them, notwithstanding the moon shone brightly to dim them.
“Is there no hope?” said Fitzgerald to the surgeon. The medical man raised the body up—a cold sweat was upon the face—death seemed nigh at hand. He shook his head.
“Fly, sir,” said Ampisand’s second, “or you will be taken, the crowd are near at hand.”