"Here it is, in the Constitution. 'Article XIV., Section 2. Penalty for fighting a duel. No person who shall hereafter fight a duel, or assist in the same as a second, or send, accept, or knowingly carry a challenge therefor, or agree to go out of the State to fight a duel, shall hold any office in this State.' H'm," sniffed the Doctor. "Strikes me that won't prevent a lot of people from fighting. It discriminates against the would-be office-holder, but not against _me_, who wouldn't swallow an office if you put it in mah mouth." "Or von Rittenheim, who wouldn't know one if he saw it! Perhaps it's a delicate tribute to the desire of all North Carolinians to serve their State." "What disturbs me," said Dr. Morgan, shutting the book, "is that Ah like the fellow, and Ah don't want to shoot him all up fo' nothing. And, as Ah said befo', Ah sho' do think the fever's coming on him." "What are you going to do?" "Blest if Ah know!" "What answer did you send?" "Ah told Bud to tell him Ah'd attend to it when the mud dried." "Good. That'll give you two or three days to find out what's the matter with him. Oh, what a joke, what a joke!" Bob subsided into a chair, overcome with joy at the idea of his father as a participant in a formal duel. "Let me know how it comes on, won't you, sir? May I be your second?" "No," returned the Doctor, hunting his place in the discarded novel. "Ah'm laying off to have you governor some day, and Ah don't want to have you disqualified this early!" Bob grinned appreciatively, and again explored the clouds. "I'm going to see Sydney. May I show her this?" Bob took his father's "H'm" for an assent, and went out to saddle his horse. Von Rittenheim, sitting before the fire with _Wallenstein's Lager_ on his knee, but with eyes bent upon the flames that burst with tiny explosions from the logs, and with mind wandering far from thoughts of Schiller,--von Rittenheim was waiting with what patience he could command for Bud's return. With the falling of the wind at dusk the rain ceased. Friedrich lighted his lamp and opened his door to look up the road, a view not commanded by his single window. He prepared his evening meal of coffee and bread and the batter-cakes that he had learned to like and then to make in this land of the frying-pan. Still Bud did not come. At eleven o'clock he went to bed, for he knew that no countryman, unless he were going for the doctor, would be abroad at that hour, with such mud under foot. The next day's noon brought no news of the recreant messenger, and von Rittenheim went to the Yarebroughs' cabin in search of him. "He ain' home," Melissa said, in the raised voice that she felt to be necessary to the German's understanding of her English. "He's gone to shoot cotton-tails. Ah 'low Ah'll make you-all a pie, 'f ye like," she added, offering this practical sympathy to the suffering that she saw written on his face.