“We stop here,” I said as the carriage drove up. “I have some land to choose and measure here. Shall we alight, gentlemen?” I took the pistol-case in my hands and led the way. They followed me. The carriage remained. We went on together several hundred yards until I fancied we should be quite safe from interruption. We were in a dense forest. At a little distance was a small stretch of tolerably open pine land, which seemed to answer the usual purposes. Here I paused and confronted them. “Mr. Kingsley,” I said without further preliminaries, “I have taken the liberty of bringing you here, as the most honorable man I know, in order that you should witness the adjustment of an affair of honor between Mr. Edgerton and myself.” As I spoke I unrolled the pistol-case. Edgerton grew pale as death, but remained silent. Kingsley was evidently astonished, but not so much so as to forbear the obvious answer. “How! an affair of honor? Is this inevitable--necessary, Clifford?” “Absolutely!” “In no way to be adjusted?” “In but one! This man has dishonored me in the dearest relations of my household.” “Ha! can it be?” “Too true! There is no help for it now. I am dealing with him still as a man of honor. I should have been justified in shooting him down like a dog--as one shoots down the reptile that crawls to the cradle of his children. I give him an equal chance for life.” “It is only what I feared!” said Kingsley, looking at Edgerton as he spoke. The latter had staggered back against a tree. Big drops of sweat stood upon his brows. His head hung down. Still he was silent. I gave the weapons to Kingsley, who proceeded to charge them. “I will not fight you, Clifford!” exclaimed the criminal with husky accents. “You must!” “I can not--I dare not--I will not! You may shoot me down where I stand. I have wronged you. I dare not lift weapon at your breast.” “Wretch! say not this!” I answered. “You must make the atonement.” “Be it so! Shoot me! You are right! I am ready to die.” “No, William Edgerton, no! You must not refuse me the only atonement you can make. You must not couple that atonement with a sting. Hear me! You have violated the rites of hospitality, the laws of honor and of manhood, and grossly abused all the obligations of friendship. These offences would amply justify me in taking your life without scruple, and without exposing my own to any hazard. But my soul revolts at this. I remember the past--our boyhood together--and the parental kindness of your venerated parent. These deprive me of a portion of that bitterness which would otherwise have moved me to destroy you. Take the pistol. If life is nothing to you, it is as little to me now. Use the privilege which I give you, and I shall be satisfied with the event.” He shook his head while he repeated:-- “No! I can not. Say no more, Clifford. I deserve death!”