Britisher and I have made all arrangements."

"Arrangements? what arrangements?" asked Fernando with guileless
innocence.

"Arrangements for the meeting, to be sure."

"What meeting?"

"Meeting with Lieutenant Matson."

Throwing down his book, Fernando started up impatiently said:

"I don't want to meet the infernal lieutenant. I thought you had settled
it."

"So I did, and right dacintly, too. Now what weapons do ye want?"

"Weapons!" cried Fernando, the truth at last beginning to dawn upon him.
"Great Heavens! Terrence, do you mean a duel?"

"Certainly, me frind, nothin' ilse. There's no way to get out of it,
honorably."

Fernando reeled as if he had been struck a blow. He had read of duels,
but, in the solitude of his western home on the farm, he had never known
of any. They were the bloody inventions of more polite civilization.
One had been fought between two trappers at a trading post, not over
forty miles away, in which rifles at thirty paces were used, and both
men were killed. The preacher had said it was murder. Fernando was