. . . . . . . . .
He’ll be hanged yet;
Though every drop of water swear against it,
And gape at wid’st to glut him.
Tempest.
The next morning, at the appointed time, accompanied by a young Spaniard, as second, Willis was on the beach, where he found De Vere and his friend. The foes saluted each other with the most scrupulous politeness. Ten paces were measured as the distance, and they took their positions.
The signal was given, and both fired, but with unequal success; at the report De Vere sprung up, and then fell senseless at full length upon the sand; Willis was unharmed, and merely asking his opponent’s second if his friend wished another shot—to which, of course, he replied in the negative—he got into his boat, and without even looking at De Vere, pulled back to the harbor.
Anxious to get away from Havana as soon as possible, for, since his rencounter with De Vere, he was confident that Francisca must know his true character, or rather the character De Vere had falsely given him, and not desiring to meet her or her father, Willis made all possible dispatch to get through with his business; and in two days after the duel he was again at sea, and bound for Africa.
The cargo he would bring with him was engaged to a trader on the other side of the island, and he did not intend returning to Havana.
He had a quick and fortunate run over, and was four days out, on his return, with the best lot of negroes he had ever obtained, all grown men, strong and healthy, when he fell in with a sail.