“I am going to write a couple of letters,” he said, “then I shall lie down for an hour or so. Shall we go down and drink a steadier?” “One won’t hurt, of course.” “And, by the way, Dale, if I—if it happens to be me to-morrow, you take Pete—he’s a good fellow.” The cousins clasped hands in silence and passed out. As the door closed behind them, a dusty form rolled out from under the bed, and the disreputable, eavesdropping, backsliding Pete stood up and rubbed a sleeve across his eyes. “It ain’t me dat’s gwine to be give to nobody else. I hates to do it, but dey ain’t no othah way. Mas’ Ha’ison cain’t be spaihed.” He glided out mysteriously, some plan of salvation working in his black head. * * * * * Just before daybreak next morning, three stealthy figures crept out and made their way toward Ford’s Creek. One skulked behind the other two, dogging their steps and taking advantage of the darkness to keep very near to them. At the grim trysting-place they halted and were soon joined by other stealthy figures, and together they sat down to wait for the daylight. The seconds conferred for a few minutes. The ground was paced off, and a few low-pitched orders prepared the young men for business. “I will count three, gentlemen,” said Lieutenant Custis. “At three, you are to fire.” At last daylight came, gray and timid at first, and then red and bold as the sun came clearly up. The pistols were examined and the men placed face to face. “Are you ready, gentlemen?” But evidently Harrison Randolph was not. He was paying no attention to the seconds. His eyes were fixed on an object behind his opponent’s back. His attitude relaxed and his mouth began twitching. Then he burst into a peal of laughter. “Pete,” he roared, “drop that and come out from there!” and away he went into another convulsion of mirth. The others turned just in time to see Pete cease his frantic grimaces of secrecy at his master, and sheepishly lower an ancient fowling-piece which he had had levelled at Bob Lee. “What were you going to do with that gun levelled at me?” asked Lee, his own face twitching. “I was gwine to fiah jes’ befo’ dey said free. I wa’n’t gwine to kill you, Mas’ Bob. I was on’y gwine to lame you.” Another peal of laughter from the whole crowd followed this condescending statement. “You unconscionable scoundrel, you! If I was your master, I’d give you a hundred lashes.” “Pete,” said his master, “don’t you know that it is dishonourable to shoot a man from behind? You see you haven’t in you the making of a gentleman.” “I do’ know nuffin’ ’bout mekin’ a gent’man, but I does know how to save one dat’s already made.” The prime object of the meeting had been entirely forgotten. They gathered around Pete and examined the weapon.