THE DUEL.
Blood! he will have blood!—SHAKESPEARE.
As Alexander and his party entered the fly that was to take them to the
station, they observed the crested coach and liveried servants of Prince
Ernest coming around the next corner.
“Ah!” said Alexander. “We shall be at the station before them. I am glad
of it. Our advance will enable us to take a whole carriage and avoid the
possibility of going down in their company.”
“But it is not to be presumed but that Prince Ernest will do the same
thing—will engage a whole carriage for himself and _suite_,” answered
Tredegar.
“_If he can._ But whole carriages are not always to be had, at the last
moment before starting. There may chance to be one, and that I will
secure.”
They were bowling rapidly along the streets as Alexander spoke.
In due time they reached the crowded station.
“It is a notable blessing that we are not encumbered with baggage,” said
Mr. Tredegar, as they pressed their way to the first-class ticket
window.
“Yes; what little we have can be taken in the carriage with us,” replied
Alexander.
High over the heads of the crowd that was before them, Francis Tredegar
held his ten-pound note, and high also over their voices he spoke:
“We want a whole first-class carriage, if you please.”
The note was taken.
“How far?” inquired the agent.
“Through,” answered Francis.
The tickets were handed him.
Francis clutched them and said:
“Come! we must hurry all the same in order to secure ourselves.”
As they pressed outward through the crowd, they saw a servant in the
livery of Prince Ernest pressing inward towards the ticket office. And
before they had quite worked their way through they heard the man call
for a whole first-class carriage.
“You see he is after the same thing. Let us hurry to the train. First
come first served, you know. And there may be but one,” remarked Alick.
They pressed forward to the railway platform; found a guard and showed
him their tickets and—a crown piece to hurry his movements.
Guard touched his hat, opened a door and popped our party into a roomy
carriage with eight comfortable seats.
“The only wholly vacant one on the train, sir, I can assure you,” said
the guard, pocketing his crown piece, touching his hat and closing the
door.
“Ah!” whispered Alexander, rubbing his hands, “I told you so.” It was
such a satisfaction for him to think he had been beforehand with the
unlucky Austrian, who would therefore be compelled to distribute himself
and his suite promiscuously through the carriages.
He had no idea that another carriage would be attached to the train
especially to accommodate Prince Ernest and his suite. Yet such was the
case.
The train started. It was the express, and it went on at a tremendous
rate. Houses, streets, suburbs, fields, woods, towns flew behind it.
How did our travelers pass the two or three hours of their journey? They
were going down by the express, for the avowed purpose of engaging in a
mortal combat. It might be supposed that their time would be spent in
sorely troubled thought. Will it be believed that it was passed
in—sleep?
Yet so it was. Human nature must sleep. The condemned criminal sleeps
the night before his execution; the victim on the rack has been known to
sleep in the intervals between each turn of the screw; the agonized
mother drops asleep in the interims of her travail.
Alexander was going to kill or to be killed; Francis Tredegar was going
down to help him meet either fate. Yet these by no means hardened
sinners, really slept.
Worn out by want of rest, and affected by the swift motion of the train,
they slept soundly—waking up only once in a while, when the train would
stop at some unusually noisy way station.
Doubtless on these wakings both would realize with a pang of
recollection the horror of the business upon which they were traveling.
But if so neither gave a sign. If either spoke it would be to make some
commonplace remark, as:
“_Ah-yah!_ I do believe I have been asleep! This dancing until four
o’clock in the morning does use a fellow up confoundedly,” from Francis
Tredegar; or:
“Quite a pretty little village this where we are stopping now,” from
Alexander.
But not one word of the grave matter that occupied both minds.
And as soon as the train started they would cease talking, and soon
after, fall asleep again, and sleep until the next stoppage at the next
noisy station.
Thus the hours passed swiftly.
At length they were waked up by a very unusual bustle, and found
themselves at a very unusually large station.
“This is a considerable town. I wonder what it is,” said Francis
Tredegar, yawning and looking out of the window.
“It is Southampton and we are at our journey’s end,” answered Alexander.
“Indeed! We have run down very soon.”
“Not so very soon either. We slept all the way and know little of the
flight of time. It wants but twenty minutes to eleven o’clock, and we
have but just time to catch the boat. Where is the guard? I wish he
would come and open the door and let us out. It is a confounded
nuisance, this locking the carriage-doors on the outside, keeping one in
a sort of flying prison,” grumbled Alexander, looking from the window up
and down the platform for the guard.
“It is for one’s safety,” said Francis Tredegar.
“Oh, bosh! as if I hadn’t any right to risk my own life! It is not so
precious to any one, I take it.”
“Well, but granting that, _other_ lives may be precious to _other_
people, and this rule is made for the safety of all.”
As Francis Tredegar spoke the guard came up and unlocked the door, and
released the prisoners.
“A quarter to eleven! Come, Francis, hurry—we have not a moment to lose
if we would catch the boat,” exclaimed Alexander, flying down the
platform and beckoning a cab from the stand.
Francis Tredegar and Alick’s valet hurried after him.
“To the St. Aubins steamboat, as fast as you can go,” was the order
Alexander gave to the cabman, who stood hat in hand holding the door
open.
The man closed the door upon the impatient party, mounted his seat, and
started his horses.
They were driven rapidly down to the wharf, where the St. Aubins steamer
lay getting up her steam. They got out, paid the cab, and passed on into
the boat.
“Five minutes to eleven—we have just saved ourselves. But that dastard
has not made his appearance yet! Is it possible that he will back out at
the last moment? If he does, I will post him for a coward all over
Europe!” muttered Alexander, frowning.
“There he comes now!” exclaimed Francis, as a carriage rattled rapidly
down towards the boat.
And there he was, sure enough. It was not likely that the excitable
Austrian was going to lag behind on such an adventure as this.
Prince Ernest and his suite stepped upon deck just one minute and a half
before the gang-plank was withdrawn, the signal-gun fired, and the
steamer started.
In passing on the deck, the adversaries met face to face. Each raised
his hat with a stiff bow and passed on—Prince Ernest and his suite to
the forward end of the boat, Alexander and his party to the aft. And
they took good care not to meet again during the voyage.
They had a fair day for their foul deed. The sky was unusually clear,
the air calm, and the sea smooth. The steamer ran at the rate of ten
knots an hour.
Alexander and his party sat at the stern looking out at sea, and reading
or pretending to read the morning papers served around by a newsboy who
had the run of the boat.
The boat was certainly not crowded. In fact there were very few
passengers on board. And among them Alexander and his party saw not a
face they knew except those of Prince Ernest and his second.
At two o’clock lunch was served in the saloon.
“Will you come down? we have had but a slight breakfast,” pleaded
Tredegar.
“I cannot sit at the same table with a man I am about to fight and
perhaps to kill,” muttered Alexander.
“Nor would he sit at the same table with you, it is to be presumed. But
there are probably several tables in the saloon. There goes Prince
Ernest! his fire-eating propensities do not take away his appetite for
milder food it seems. Let him select his table and then let us go down
and take some other,” suggested Tredegar.
Alexander assented. And in a few minutes they descended to the saloon
and took seats at a table as far as possible from that occupied by
Prince Ernest.
The luncheon was a liberal one, as good as a dinner—with soup, fish,
fowl, roast and boiled joints, pastry, cheese, and fruits. The wines
were good and cheap, various and abundant.
Again, will it be credited, Alexander, firmly believing that within a
few hours he must kill or be killed, still ate and drank freely at this
lunch. And Tredegar followed his example. Perhaps they did it that the
sated stomach might soothe the brain. At any rate when they rose from
the table, they went down to the lower deck to a spot set apart and
sacred to smoking, and there they smoked out several cigars. After that
they went to the cabin, turned into their respective berths, and went to
sleep and slept until the ringing of the dinner-bell aroused them.
They arranged their toilettes and went into the saloon. And again, they
sought seats as far as possible from the table occupied by Prince
Ernest.
It might have been the invigorating effects of the sea-air upon our
party; but they certainly sat down and made as good a dinner at seven
o’clock as if they had had no luncheon at two. After sitting an hour
over their wine, they finished with each a cup of coffee, and then went
up on deck.
The sun had set, but the western horizon and the sea were still suffused
with his lingering crimson lights. A few stars were coming out.
Alexander and Francis Tredegar sat down in the after part of the boat,
and entered into conversation, talking of anything rather than of the
approaching duel.
“What time shall we reach St. Aubins do you think?” inquired Alick.
“I have never been on this route before, so I cannot tell you of my own
knowledge. From what I have been able to pick up from observations
dropped by those that are more familiar with the voyage, I judge we
shall be in port somewhere about midnight.”
“So late in the night? that will be very inconvenient.”
“Yes; but unless we could have arrived before sunset, which was clearly
impossible, we could have done nothing more to-day. We must stay at the
best hotel to-night, and get our little affair quietly over in the
morning.”
“The sooner the better,” muttered Alexander.
The night was beautiful. The waters of the Channel, often so troubled,
were calm as those of a placid lake. The heavens were of that deep
transparent purple-black that only summer skies over summer seas ever
show. Brighter than diamonds the stars shone down, creating the
darkly-brilliant light so much more beautiful than moonbeams. The night
was holy. How could thoughts of sin, feelings of revenge, purposes of
destruction live in the soul of any man gazing out upon the divine
beauty of the sky and sea?
Ah, but Alexander was morally and spiritually ill and insane. He could
scarcely be said to belong to the natural world. His spirit seemed
already steeped to the lips in that sea of blood seen by the
poet-prophet of Italy in his vision of Hell.
How shall he be cured and saved?
And yet he was not unconscious, although he was unimpressed by the
beauty of the night.
The deck was almost solitary; the passengers had gone below and turned
in, many of them suffering more or less from the effects of
sea-sickness; for the boat rolled a little, as small steamboats will
roll even on the smoothest seas. No one was left on deck except the man
at the wheel, the officers of the watch, and Alexander Lyon and Francis
Tredegar.
Francis sauntered up and down the starboard gangway, smoking his cigar,
which, at this hour and under these circumstances, was admissible, and
meditating most probably on the “coming events” that now “cast their
shadows before.”
Francis had no such deep stake in the event as had Alexander, for his
life was not to be risked, yet not the less was his spirit darkened
within him. He, too, saw the star-spangled firmament above and the
smooth sea below, reflecting it as a mirror; but he could not enjoy the
vision as once he might have. The crime, the folly of which he had been
tempted to become a participant was not yet consummated, but yet he felt
that some portion of his own soul was already dead, or paralyzed so that
he could not feel the heavenly influence of the scene around him. How
should he?
Alexander stood leaning over the bulwarks of the boat, gazing moodily
out to sea. I said he was not unconscious of the divine beauty of the
night, although he was untouched by it. He saw the glory of the
firmament, but as something afar off, which could not reach him, and
which he could not reach; but he remembered also that in happier times
his spirit was touched, drawn out, elevated, by this heavenly influence.
Why could it not affect him now? Why was the divine loveliness beaming
down upon this natural world, so silent, cold and still, for him? Why
was the living spirit of the night but a dead body for him?
Alas! he knew and felt why. He was a man who had ruined his natural
life, and all but ruined his immortal spirit. He had sped too fast and
too far on the downward road to perdition to stop himself now. He was
like one who, running rapidly down hill, has gained such an impetus that
he cannot stop, though he knows that he rushes to death and hell.
Alexander knew and felt that dueling was unjustifiable under any
circumstances—that it was a tremendous crime—a doubly damnable crime,
since it involved at once murder and suicide of body and of soul—perhaps
the very worst of crimes; and yet he was bent upon committing it, even
though, in doing so, he should lose both body and soul.
The night seemed endless, and the sea boundless, to this sick spirit;
yet, just as the watch sounded eight bells and midnight, the boat
entered the picturesque harbor of St. Aubins, and soon after landed at
the wharf.
There was something more than picturesque, there was something
mysterious and even spiritual in the aspect of this singular little
maritime town, as seen for the first time in the starlight midnight,
overshadowed by its background of Noirmont Heights, and reflected with
its few gleaming lights in the still waters of its quiet little
harbor—St. Aubins! it is a place for a tired spirit to stop and rest in.
The hour was not yet so late but that some of the hotels were open,
especially as they were expecting the arrival of the boat.
Our passengers landed. Some few carriages were waiting, probably by
appointment. Prince Ernest and his suite entered one of these and drove
off.
Alexander, accompanied by Francis Tredegar, and followed by his servant
bearing the carpet bags, walked dreamily up into the town, and took the
direction pointed out to him towards the St. Aubins’ hotel.
In fact, all his life now seemed something unreal, visionary, delirious
as a fevered dream.
Arrived at the hotel, they first saw the empty carriage of Prince Ernest
turning away from the door, and they knew as a certainty what they had
before taken for granted—that their adversaries were stopping at the
same house, which was far the best in the place.
They took a suite of rooms, including a private parlor and two
bed-chambers.
“We will have a bit of supper up here and then to work,” said Francis
Tredegar, touching the bell. Francis was now the only active agent in
the enterprise.
The waiter answered his summons.
“Supper immediately. Anything in the world that you have handiest, with
a bottle of good sherry,” was Mr. Tredegar’s orders.
The waiter disappeared and reappeared several times with great rapidity,
in course of which evolution he spread the table with a white cloth, and
with crockery ware, cutlery and glass, and loaded it with cold ham,
roast fowl, and a salad, together with the bottle of wine that had been
bespoken.
Alexander and Francis sat down and ate and drank as other travelers
might who had no murder on their mind. They spoke no word of the
impending duel.
When supper was over and the cloth removed, Francis Tredegar turned to
his principal and said:
“Now you will wish to feel well and strong to-morrow morning. You have
lost a great deal of rest lately, and will require all the sleep that
you can get to restore you. So you had better go to bed at once, and lie
there till I call you. I will be sure to call you two hours before the
time that shall be fixed for the meeting.”
“And you, Francis? Will you not take some rest?”
“No, it is not so necessary for me. I must meet Zollenhoffar by
appointment to settle the last—the final arrangements—such as could not
possibly be settled before our arrival here.”
“Well, you will call me in time?”
“Certainly.”
Alexander retired to his chamber, and Francis Tredegar went out to keep
his appointment on what might be called neutral ground—in a room,
namely, far removed from the quarters of the principal belligerents, and
which the seconds had engaged for the purpose of settling the final
preliminaries to the hostile meeting.
The night watch of the hotel could have told, and afterwards did tell,
how these two men had shut themselves up together in a private room,
where they remained from one o’clock, till half past two, when they came
out together, locked the door, took the key with them, left the house,
and bent their steps towards the gloomy heights of Noirmont that lay
behind the town; and how about four o’clock they returned, and
separated, each going to his own apartment.
Certainly at about a quarter past four Mr. Tredegar entered Alexander’s
chamber, where he found his principal tossing about on the bed in a
feverish and impatient manner.
“Have you slept?” inquired Francis.
“Slept? How could I? Is it time to rise?”
“Yes.”
“I am very glad of it,” exclaimed Alexander, jumping out of bed.
“You have rather more than two hours before you, if you have any last
preparations to make,” said Francis, gravely.
“I have nothing to do but shave, wash and dress.”
“But—” said Francis, sadly.
“I tell you I have no other preparations to make. Having settled my
worldly affairs, I have no other preparations to make. What should I
have?” emphatically exclaimed Alexander.
What, indeed? How could the duelist prepare for probable death? The
Christian soldier going into battle, or upon a forlorn hope, in a
righteous cause can invoke the blessing of God on his arms, and can
commit his soul, for life or death, into His holy keeping. Yes, even the
condemned criminal, however deeply steeped in guilt, can kneel and pray
for mercy and forgiveness, for acceptance and admission into Heaven.
These can prepare to meet their God.
But how can the determined duelist prepare for death? Can he pray for
pardon for past sins when he is about to commit the last, the greatest,
the deadliest sin of his life? No, he goes to his fatal work grimly
defying man and God, death and hell.
“You have fixed upon the ground?” inquired Alexander, as he brushed his
hair, calmly and carefully, as for an evening party, for he had suddenly
recovered all his self-possession.
“Yes; it is a small secluded spot at the foot of Noirmont Heights, to
which I shall conduct you.”
“And the time?”
“Six. The carriage is ordered at half-past five.”
“Very well. There are but a few moments left; so much the better,” said
Alexander, as he finished his toilet.
When they went into their private parlor, they found hot coffee waiting
them, thanks to the careful forethought of Francis Tredegar.
When they had finished their coffee the carriage was announced, and they
arose.
“I have laid the train so that the coachman, and even the servants,
think we are a party of geologists going to the mountain to search for
geological specimens. They will take our pistol-case for a box of tools
and think all right,” explained Francis Tredegar, as they descended the
stairs.
“Then, to complete the ruse, we must leave the cab at some short
distance from the dueling ground.”
“Of course. And still more to guard against suspicion and interruption,
Prince Ernest and his attendants start as if for a journey, make a
slight detour, and approach the place of meeting from another
direction,” answered Francis.
The morning was fresh and bright. The sun was, perhaps, an hour high
when Alexander Lyon and Francis Tredegar entered their carriage. Simms,
the valet, mounted the box and seated himself beside the coachman. And
in this manner they were driven out towards Noirmont Heights.
When they arrived at the foot of the mountain, Francis Tredegar ordered
the carriage to draw up.
“Give me that box of tools, Simms. We shall find some valuable specimens
of sienites on the other side of the mountain,” said Francis Tredegar,
in a rather loud voice intended to be heard by the coachman, as the
party alighted from the carriage.
“Wait for us here. We may be gone some hours, but don’t leave the spot,”
he added, as he led the way, followed by Alexander and his servant,
around a projecting rock, to a retired spot, shut off from observation
by surrounding precipices.
As they entered the place at one end, Prince Ernest and his party were
seen to come in at the other.
Each adversary, with his attendants, paused.
The prince was attended by his second, his surgeon and his servant.
Alexander had only his friend and his valet.
Major Zollenhoffar and Mr. Tredegar drew out from their respective
groups, and met in the center of the ground. There, for the last time,
they conferred upon the possibility of an amicable settlement of the
difficulty. But the impracticability of reconciling the adversaries
consisted in this—that each of the adversaries deemed _himself_ the
injured, insulted, outraged party, who was entitled to an humble apology
from the other, or in want of that the “satisfaction of a
gentleman”—which usually means an ounce of lead in his body or
fellow-creature’s blood upon his soul. Each was willing to receive an
apology, instead of a bullet; but neither would hear of making the
slightest concession.
When the proposition was made to Alexander, he simply turned away his
pallid face in cold and silent scorn.
When it was made to Prince Ernest, the excitable Austrian jumped three
feet from the ground and swore that he would have “one grawnd
sat-ees-fac-shee-on.”
The quarrel having proved irreconcilable, the last preparations were
made for the duel.
The ground was stepped off, and the foes were placed by their respective
seconds at ten paces from each other—standing due north and south, with
the advantage of the light equally divided between them; the insulted
sun being just above the mountains due east, and shining down full upon
the dueling ground. Major Zollenhoffar had the choice of the four pair
of pistols provided. Francis Tredegar was to give the signals.
Having placed and armed their principals, and taken position on opposite
sides of the line of fire, and about midway between them, and all being
ready, Francis Tredegar looked from one to the other. He saw that
Alexander Lyon was pale as death, but still as marble, steady as a
statue; and that Prince Ernest was fiery red, but in other respects
appeared as calm as his adversary.
But Francis Tredegar himself grew very pale as the fatal moment
approached. His voice sounded hollow and unnatural, as he began:
“Gentlemen, are you ready!”
A dread pause and a silent assent, or an assent taken for granted.
“ONE!”
And at the signal the foes raised their pistols.
“TWO!”
They took deliberate aim.
“THREE.”
They kept them so.
“FIRE!”
They discharged their pistols and Alexander Lyon fell.
The impulsive Austrian threw down his weapon and, regardless of
etiquette, ran over to raise his fallen foe.
Alexander was still alive when they raised him. There was a convulsive
shuddering of the form—a nervous quivering of the face—a
gasp—“Drusilla!” and all was still as death.
Prince Ernest had his grand satisfaction.