"I know not rightly how it was, but there arose some words among these gentlemen, and they came to quarrelling. Sir Edward held fast by Mr. Camillus, who was a great friend of his; but Mr. Leroy, whose blood was up because of something that had been said, at last struck Mr. Camillus a blow. Everybody cried directly that he must fight him. Sir Edward ran back to the castle for pistols, for the gentlemen were not armed; and he came in all haste into the chamber where I was sewing, with little Master at his horn-book, and bade me tell Madam Claudia as gently as I could that there was to be a duel between Mr. Camillus and Mr. Leroy. I went up into the chamber where the three young ladies were together, and Madam Sophia was trying of a new gown. I told as quiet as I could what had happened. Madam Amata cried out, and ran to her sister, and clipped her round the neck. She said, 'Claude, _ma soeur, ma bonne, ma belle!_ go, go to Camille, and ask him not to fight!' I looked at Madam Claudia. She went as white as a sheet the first minute; but the next she lifted her head up proudly, and she said, 'Shall I ask him not to revenge an affront to his honor? _Noblesse oblige, ma soeur_.' 'You are such a child, Aimée!' was all Madam Sophia said, as she looked round from her tiring-glass. 'You always call me so,' said Madam Amata; 'but this is dreadful--it is death, perhaps, my sisters!' Madam Sophia took no heed of her, but went on trying her new gown, and showing her woman where it did not please her. For a minute I thought that Madam Claudia was going to give way and have a good cry; but she did not. I scarce knew then that 'tis not our deepest sorrow that we weep for. She sat down, still very white, and taking no heed to her sister's new array, though she, poor thoughtless maid! kept calling to her, didn't she like this and did she no think that was too long and t'other too narrow? Madam Amata came softly up to me, and whispered '_Ma bonne_, go down and bring us the first news.' So I slipped out and down-stairs. About half an hour after a gentleman came in--a French gentleman, but I forget his name now--who I knew had been at the fighting. I called to him and asked him to pardon me for being so bold as to speak to him, but for the love of God to tell me the news. 'News?' quoth he, 'what! of the duel? Oh! they have fought, and Monsieur De L'Orient has fallen: Sir Edward Ingram is carrying him here'--and Mr. Somebody, I don't mind who it was. 'Is he dead, Sir?' I said, all of a tremble. 'I really don't know,' says he, quite careless; 'I think not quite.'