Mr. Granty was somewhat nettled; but neither Beauchamp nor Hayward attended to any of his 'ahs;' the ground was measured, the pistols loaded, the two gentlemen placed on their ground, and then came the unpleasant "one--two--three." Both fired instantly, and the next moment Harry Wittingham reeled and dropped. Beauchamp thought he saw Ned Hayward waver slightly, more as if the pistol had recoiled violently in his hand than any thing else; but, as soon as his antagonist fell, the young officer ran up to him, stooped and raised his head. The surgeon came up directly and opened the wounded man's coat and waistcoat as he lay with his face as pale as ashes. At the same moment, however, there was a cry of "Hie, hie," and turning round, Beauchamp saw the poor little pot-boy, Billy Lamb, scampering across the field as hard as he could go. "Run, run," cried the boy; "there are the magistrates and the constables all coming up--run over by the style there; I brought the chaise to the end of the lane. "I can't go," said Ned Hayward, "till I hear what is to come of this." "You had better go," said the surgeon, looking up; "it does not seem to me to be dangerous, but you may get into prison if you stay. No, it has shattered the rib, but passed round. He will do well, I think. Run, run; I can see the people coming." Beauchamp took Ned Hayward's arm and drew him away. In two minutes they had reached the chaise and were rolling on; but then Ned Hayward leaned back somewhat languidly, and said, "I wish, Beauchamp, you would just tie your handkerchief tight round my shoulder here, for it is bleeding more than I thought, and I feel sickish." "Good Heavens! are you hurt?" exclaimed Beauchamp, and opening his waistcoat, he saw that the whole right side of his shirt was steeped in blood. CHAPTER XXVI. I do believe, from my very heart and soul, that there is not the slightest possible good in attempting to write a book regularly. I say with prime ministers and maid-servants, with philosophers and fools, "I've tried it, and surely I ought to know." It may be objected that the result entirely depends upon the way in which a thing is tried, and that a very simple experiment would fail or might fail in the hands of a fool or a maid-servant, which would succeed in those of a prime minister or a philosopher. Nevertheless, it is true that critics make rules which life will not conform to. Art says one thing, nature another; and, in such a case, a fig for art! Art may teach us how to embellish nature, or show us what to portray.