“’Twas not just a temperate letter, I’m fearing. For your fever had run four days, and there seemed no change save the worst change. Oh, well,” Strangwayes laughed, “I wrote him that his cursed ugly pride had never brought anything to you but disgrace and pain, and now he had killed you he should leave you to me. I told him his blundering stupidity in sending the watch would have wrecked your honor, had they come ten minutes earlier, and now it had wrecked your life. And I told him he had been no father to you while you lived, and he should not play that part in your death. I said if he came hither I would bar the door in his face. Truth, I must have been near mad to write so uncivilly, but—I had been watching with you three nights, and I was worried for you, lad. So he did not come. And you do not wish him to?” “No, never,” Hugh said, then lay silent so long that Strangwayes, slipping his arm from beneath his head, had risen, when Hugh broke out, “Dick, you must have sent him a message the day of the duel.” “Hm,” said Strangwayes, heading for the fireplace. “You promised me—” “Only not to speak to him,” the other put in hastily. “I did not. I wrote him a letter there in the bakeshop, and sent it by a stray trooper. Dear lad, I was trained for a lawyer. How could I resist a quibble? You’re going to forgive me, Hugh.” “’Tis a very little fault in you, Dick,” Hugh answered. “Though if another had done it—” “Well, I’ll never attempt to incline Captain Gwyeth to his duty again, rest assured,” Strangwayes ended their talk earnestly.