"Your life was at your opponent's mercy," I said. "It was _he_ who was
skilled in the use of the pistol; your risk was infinitely greater than
his. Are you responsible for an accident? Rouse yourself, Romayne! Think
of the time to come, when all this will be forgotten."

"Never," he said, "to the end of my life."

He made that reply in dull, monotonous tones. His eyes looked wearily
and vacantly straight before him. I spoke to him again. He remained
impenetrably silent; he appeared not to hear, or not to understand me.
The surgeon came in, while I was still at a loss what to say or do
next. Without waiting to be asked for his opinion, he observed Romayne
attentively, and then drew me away into the next room.

"Your friend is suffering from a severe nervous shock," he said. "Can
you tell me anything of his habits of life?"

I mentioned the prolonged night studies and the excessive use of tea.
The surgeon shook his head.

"If you want my advice," he proceeded, "take him home at once. Don't
subject him to further excitement, when the result of the duel is known
in the town. If it ends in our appearing in a court of law, it will be a
mere formality in this case, and you can surrender when the time comes.
Leave me your address in London."

I felt that the wisest thing I could do was to follow his advice. The
boat crossed to Folkestone at an early hour that day--we had no time to
lose. Romayne offered no objection to our return to England; he seemed
perfectly careless what became of him. "Leave me quiet," he said;