He folded the paper carefully. “Here, take it, Ridydale,” he ordered. “But remember, I’ve no quarrel with you, Corporal. You have been a good friend to me, and I’d still keep you so. Only never another mention of Captain Gwyeth.” Ridydale hesitated a moment with the letter in his hand before he broke out: “Tell you what, Master Hugh, I’ll send this by another messenger. I’m going to rest here till the fight’s over. You may want me.” “That’s well,” Strangwayes said promptly. After Ridydale had left them, Dick ordered up dinner, and they tried to talk over it as before. Strangwayes made out fairly, but a numb silence was on Hugh; in the bracing anger of a few moments before his resolution seemed all to have vanished and left him spiritless. He could not help looking to the window to see what time of day it was, and involuntarily he interrupted Strangwayes with a question as to how soon they should start for the field. “Not for a couple of hours,” the other replied. “’Tis a bit of a walk; we’ll take supper here afterward—” With a sudden gesture Hugh pushed by his plate and swung about with his head hidden against the back of his chair. For of a sudden there came sweeping upon him overpoweringly the realization he had been battling off all the morning: this was the last meal he might ever eat. He got to his feet unsteadily and walked to the door; the scrape of a chair told him Strangwayes had risen. “Don’t!” Hugh cried. “I want to be alone.” Somehow he felt his way down a flight of backstairs, and pushing open a side door stumbled out into the air. There was a level stretch of pashy bowling green down which he splashed his way. But press forward as he would, he knew he could not run from what he had bound himself to, so, where the green ended at the hedge, he flung himself down on a wet bench and sat with his head in his hands. In one of the bare poplars a snow bird was chirruping; over toward the stable he could hear a man calling and a horse stamp. He dropped his head on his knees and stared dumbly at the trodden mud between his feet. For he knew now there was nothing to help him, even Dick’s friendship and affection were of no avail; there was only himself to rely on. Once he thought of God, but the God the Oldesworths had taught him was distant and very stern; He would never take pity on a duellist, even if he cried to Him. So Hugh, with his head bowed down, wrestled through the struggle alone, and little by little forced himself to accept with a soldier’s resignation the fate that should take from him the joy of battle, and of friendship, and of life that summed up all joys.