was nothing to the shock he received when young Lowell ran to the
carriage and caught up my hand. He looked at me with a smile that
would have softened a Spanish duenna.

"See here!" he cried. "Whether you like it or not, you've got to shake
hands with me. I want to tell you that was one of the finest things I
ever saw." He squeezed my fingers until the bones crunched together.
"I've heard a lot about you, and now I believe all I've heard. To
stand up there," he ran on, breathlessly, "knowing you didn't mean to
fire, and knowing he was a dead shot, and make a canvas target of
yourself--that was bully. You were an ass to do it, but it was great.
You going back to breakfast?" he demanded, suddenly, with the same
winning, eager smile. "So am I. I speak to go with you."

Before I could reply he had vaulted into the carriage, and was
shouting at the driver.

"Cochero, to the Barracks. Full speed ahead. Vamoose. Give way. Allez
vite!"

"But my seconds," I protested.

"They can walk," he said.

Already the horses were at a gallop, and as we swung around the wall
of the graveyard and were hidden from the sight of the others, Lowell
sprang into the seat beside me. With the quick fingers of the sailor,
he cast off my sword-belt and tore open my blouse.

"I wanted to get you away," he muttered, "before he found out he had