"Have you no quarrel with me now?" the young Frenchman asked. "Must
I spit on you, as my father did?" His seconds dragged him away, and
apologized to us for the outbreak. But the mischief was done. Romayne's
fiery temper flashed in his eyes. "Load the pistols," he said. After
the insult publicly offered to him, and the outrage publicly threatened,
there was no other course to take.

It had been left to us to produce the pistols. We therefore requested
the seconds of our opponent to examine and to load them. While this was
being done, the advancing sea-fog so completely enveloped us that the
duelists were unable to see each other. We were obliged to wait for the
chance of a partial clearing in the atmosphere. Romayne's temper had
become calm again. The generosity of his nature spoke in the words which
he now addressed to his seconds. "After all," he said, "the young man is
a good son--he is bent on redressing what he believes to be his father's
wrong. Does his flipping his glove in my face matter to me? I think I
shall fire in the air."

"I shall refuse to act as your second if you do," answered the French
gentleman who was assisting us. "The General's son is famous for his
skill with the pistol. If you didn't see it in his face just now, I
did--he means to kill you. Defend your life, sir!" I spoke quite as
strongly, to the same purpose, when my turn came. Romayne yielded--he
placed himself unreservedly in our hands.

In a quarter of an hour the fog lifted a little. We measured the
distance, having previously arranged (at my suggestion) that the two
men should both fire at the same moment, at a given signal. Romayne's
composure, as they faced each other, was, in a man of his irritable
nervous temperament, really wonderful. I placed him sidewise, in a