Scarcely ten words more were said upon the subject; and Mr. Driesen, after ascertaining the difference between his watch and that of Charles Tyrrell, wished his friend good-by, and went away to read his book again. CHAPTER XI. Charles Tyrrell was up early on the following morning. He was one of those who are born without the consciousness of fear. Though eager and enthusiastic by nature, vehement and rapid in character, his was not one of those weak-toned minds easily hurried on to violent actions, to be regretted the next moment, or to unsustained daring, which evaporates with the excitement of the hour. When he had struck an officer in the king's service, he knew the consequences likely to ensue, and he was quite as ready to meet those consequences after calm reflection as at the moment when he had committed the act. There was, indeed, only one condition under which Charles Tyrrell regretted his actions, which was, when the impetuosity and vehemence of his nature led him to do anything which his own heart condemned. Such, however, was not the case in the present instance. He felt solemnly that there was a chance of his meeting death in the encounter to which he was voluntarily going. He felt that he might very likely be torn, in a moment, from the side of a mother to whom he was the only source of consolation, comfort, and support. He felt that he might be taken, too, from one who had wakened in his bosom, for the first time, the noblest, the most endearing, the most kindly of affections; and, therefore, on two strong motives, he hoped and prayed that life might be continued to him. But those feelings were very different from apprehension of death. He could not bring his mind to grasp the terror with which some people regard that event. It seemed as if his mind were insusceptible of the idea of danger, and he set about all his proceedings for going out to meet Arthur Hargrave as calmly and tranquilly as he had made his preparations on the preceding day for going to Oxford. Weighing the chances, however, he sat down and wrote three brief notes to the three persons whom he thought the most interested in his existence. One was, as may well be supposed, to Lucy Effingham, and another to his mother. The third was addressed to his father, and was addressed to him in terms of affection and kindness, as if there had never existed dispute or angry feelings between them. Before he ended it, however, he spoke of his mother, and besought Sir Francis Tyrrell, in terms which he thought would touch him, if read when the hand that wrote them was cold in death, to render her life happier by a change of conduct towards her.