Your friend,
ARTHUR LUDWELL.
"Return!" said I to my second, "and inform Mr. Ludwell that if he do not consent to fight, I will proclaim him as a coward, and publish his whining letter to the world. He, with every other man who dare sustain Pilton, is my enemy."
We met! 'Twas a mild and peaceful evening when we approached the field, and the setting sun was rejoicing like a bridegroom in the blushing embrace of the trembling horizon. Its quivering rays were reflected in shadowy lines, through the foliage of the forest, while the scarlet fruit of two old holly trees—the mute records of many a duel—lent the only cheering aspect to the frightful solitude of the scene. Our seconds having retired a short distance, for the purpose of arranging the usual ceremonies, we were left standing near each other. I was proud and inflexible, yet I felt my heart throbbing with anguish, and long-prized friendship, and when I looked on his serene and dignified countenance, the jeweled days of our childhood flashed before me—when I was untainted by revenge—and uncursed by hatred,—when I was lifted above the darkness of human passion—when hope illuminated the airy future, and pleasure grasped the unalloyed fruition of reality. I thought not of my own death—of that dreamless and sodden sleep, from whose ghastly phantasm wisdom sinks into horror—of that dark insensibility to warm and mantling life—to light, hope, and love—a shadowless, impenetrable and boundless desart. Could I destroy the life of him, who with tireless truth had ever joyed in my joys—and sorrowed in my sorrows? Could I crush and scatter into nothingness, the full harvest which his ambition had garnered—the gems of mind—the sparkling thoughts of genius—the rich treasures of learning—and bankrupt the accumulated spoils of wisdom? Could I seize from the fœtid riot of the grave the animated countenance, the brave, generous and affectionate heart, or call back from the eternal prison of death, the gifted mind, and the eloquent brow? I reasoned with a memory which could not be recreant, and of the result of that duel my heart is guiltless?
Our seconds, having finished their conversation, now approached, and placed the pistols in our hands, Arthur holding his in a perpendicular position, and mine according to the latest improvement, and the repeated suggestions of my second, being directed to the earth.
"I cannot consent to fire?" said I, "while Mr. Ludwell stands directly in the line of that tree, it gives me a great advantage!"
"It makes no difference, Lionel!—Mr. Granby," said Arthur, suddenly correcting himself, "I care not in what posture, or situation I stand." His second now advanced and placed him in a position, the advantage of which did not escape the keen eye of my friend, who turned me around twice, before he confessed himself satisfied with my attitude. The word "fire" was now given, and almost at the same moment our pistols were discharged, Arthur having fired his into the air, while I in raising mine, had involuntarily aimed it directly at my antagonist. The ball struck him I know not where, but I saw him reel backwards, stagger, and laying hold of a bush near him, stumble, and fall to the earth.
"I demand another fire," said his friend, "he is able to stand, and I claim the privilege." "Mr. Ludwell cannot fire again," replied my second, "for he has thrown away his shot."
"I resign my right," interrupted Arthur! "and Lionel, I forgive you. If I recover, I will forget all—and dying, you have my unalloyed friendship. Leave this frightful place as soon as possible, for you may be arrested; and do not fear, for I shall yet recover, and we will be friends again." These words were uttered by him in a faint, though distinct voice; his features were nerved with his usual lofty dignity of countenance, yet his eye quivered with a flitting light, and a dark and unearthly color fell, like a wintry cloud, over the radiance of his brow. I could not so far divest myself of pride, as to confess in presence of our seconds that my fire had been accidental, nor could I, even at that trying moment, reconcile it to myself to be an exception to that general rule, which requires that a challenger shall never throw away his fire. Motioning to our friends to retire, I approached Arthur, and leaning over him, I whispered the simple truth. A momentary smile flashed over his pallid countenance, and grasping my hand in an ecstacy of delight, he said, "I knew it! I believe you! I was confident that you did not fire intentionally!" He was here interrupted by my second who exclaimed "the civil authorities!" I looked round, and through the dim twilight, I saw a crowd of ill-dressed people rapidly approaching us. I knelt down, and asking forgiveness once more from my injured friend, fled with the burning brand of Cain on my forehead—an humbled and heart-broken man!