“I observed the cheek of Conway blanch at these words, and his eye became wild and unsettled. He muttered something about the police, the possibility of an interruption, and the unseasonableness of the hour. Even his own second could not restrain an expression of disgust at his cowardice.
“ ‘I can scarcely hold a pistol, much less hit a mark with one,’ whispered Conway to his second; but in the death-like silence the remark was heard distinctly throughout the room.
“ ‘Sacre,’ muttered the officer addressed, but checking his anger, he turned around, and asked our party if we should be put up across the room.
“ ‘No,’ said I, ‘Dr. Conway has declared he knows nothing of the use of the weapon I have chosen. Villain as he is, I do not wish to take advantage of him. Let us fire across this table,’ said I, touching one about four feet wide with my foot, ‘or if that will not suit him, we will cut for the highest card, and the loser shall bare his breast to the pistol of the other.’
“ ‘My God! do you mean to murder me?’ said Conway, trembling like an aspen, and scarcely able to articulate.
“ ‘Murder you! No, miscreant, though you have murdered one dearer to me than life—one, whom friendship, if not gratitude should have preserved—one who now lies in her early grave; while you, for years since her death, have been insulting man and God by your continued existence.
“ ‘What do you choose?’ asked my second sternly, as soon as I had ceased, ‘it were better for all that this matter should be closed at once.’
“ ‘We cut for the chance,’ said Conway’s second.
“The cards were brought, shuffled, and placed upon the table. I signed to Conway to take one. He stepped hurriedly up, and with a trembling hand, drew. It was a king. A smile of sardonic triumph lighted up every feature of his countenance. My second looked aghast. Yet, in that moment, my confidence did not forsake me; not a nerve quivered, as I advanced proudly to the table and drew my card. It was an ace.
“ ‘Oh! my God, it is all over,’ almost shrieked the miserable Conway, flinging his card down in despair, ‘is there no hope?’ he said, turning wildly to his second, ‘oh! shew me a chance,’ he continued, addressing me, ‘for my life. Don’t murder me in cold blood. Don’t—don’t—don’t,’ and he fell on his knees before me, raising his hands imploringly to me, while the big drops of sweat rolled from his face.