“Alas, my friend is mortally wounded,” said the count’s second, putting a bottle of Scotch snuff to his mouth, instead of a phial of brandy. The wounded man grated his teeth violently, and rejected all aid. Lights now came from Mrs. Wilson’s toward them, notwithstanding the moon shone brightly to dim them. “Is there no hope?” said Fitzgerald to the surgeon. The medical man raised the body up—a cold sweat was upon the face—death seemed nigh at hand. He shook his head. “Fly, sir,” said Ampisand’s second, “or you will be taken, the crowd are near at hand.” “Go to my lodgings,” said the surgeon, “and I will meet you there in a few minutes.” Ampisand’s friend and Fitzgerald now took the swords and ran across the churchyard, which made a short cut to the surgeon’s. As they reached the street they heard a stage-coach rattling furiously down the main street. Fitzgerald stopped. He saw it was far ahead—he uttered a faint cry—his chance of reaching his frigate was past. The surgeon soon came. The wounded man was in the charge of a German doctor, at Mrs. Wilson’s. The ladies had nearly all gone home in fainting fits, and Mary Howard had left in a flood of tears. This confirmed Fitzgerald’s suspicions. “She loved him,” said he “and, oh, what have I lost by this evening’s devotion!” Fitzgerald’s arm pained him considerably, and the surgeon dressed it. A carriage was then sent for, to bear the young officer to his post; and while it was being made ready, he threw himself upon the surgeon’s truckle bed, and caught an unquiet nap. It was nearly 3 o’clock of a cold wet morning,—for a storm had ushered in the day,—when the unhappy Fitzgerald departed in a close carriage from Belleview. For the first stage he had a hope of overtaking the post, but his horses began to lag with the advance of day, and it was three P. M. before he arrived at the point of embarkation. As he drew up at the Bowery House, he watched eagerly for some one of his brother officers, but none appeared to greet him. He paid his coachman and bounded into the passage. The bar-keeper met him at the door. “Where is the Frigate, Dennis?” said he impatiently. “She sailed at nine this morning,” said the bar-keeper, “and is now out at sea.”