“Stay a moment, nevertheless,” continued the stranger, “or,”—seeing Harry about to move on in spite of him—“if you will not, at least walk slower, that I may accompany you. I knew your father, Harry, and I can surely claim of his son the privilege of a parting word just as he is about to rush unbidden into eternity.” “Who are you, then, and what would you say?” exclaimed Harry, not a little startled to find that his purpose as well as his name was known to the stranger. “I am your friend,” replied the old man, “and my name is Common Sense. Why are you determined to throw away your life?” “Sir,” said Harry, “I am engaged in an affair of honor—a matter with which, I fancy, you can have no concern.” “I have little to do with honor as young men understand it; but I am desirous to serve you. Tell me, therefore, what is your predicament?” “A quondam friend and rival lover, jealous of my success with a lady, insinuated something to her prejudice in the presence of gentlemen. I struck him. He challenged me; and I am bound to fight him.” “Why?” “The laws of honor accord full satisfaction to an injured person.” “Is he injured?” “No, not in fact: he merely received a just chastisement for a wanton insult.” “Who says, then, that he is injured?” “He says so.” “And is it one of the articles of your code of honor that a party to a quarrel is entitled, also, to be a judge of his own case?” “That is immaterial. If a man chooses to consider himself aggrieved, he can demand an apology, or, personal satisfaction. The apology being refused—as in my case it must be—the challenge ensues: and to question his right to issue it, provided he is recognised as a gentleman, is, equally with a refusal to fight, equivalent to an admission of cowardice.” “An admission of one’s own cowardice is, truly, no alluring alternative. But let us understand each other: what sort of cowardice do you mean?” “I know of but one.” “Indeed! Cowardice, speaking generally, is fear: what fear does a man betray who declines to accept a challenge?” “The fear—eh—that is—the fear of being shot.” “Death, young gentleman, to one who believes in a future state of reward and punishment, is a solemn event; and I apprehend that a brave man, or a good man (to say nothing of a bad man) may fear to meet it without suffering the imputation of cowardice: so that, thus far, your position is none of the strongest. Does this cowardice comprehend nothing else than the fear of death?” “Nothing else.” “Then we have all the argument on that side of the question. Let us look a moment at the other. What induces a man to accept a challenge?” “The fear of dishonor.” “Ay? then _fear_ operates on both horns of the dilemma: and, for my own part, if I were forced to act under the dictation of fear, I would choose that course which promised the least disastrous result. But here, again, we do not perhaps understand each other. What kind of _dishonor_ is this?”