"Lieutenant Melville," she said, "why are you and Lieutenant Belfort to fight a duel?" Her question was so sudden and direct that it startled me. I had not suspected that she knew of our quarrel. "It is because we could not agree upon a point of honor," I said. "Do you think that it is a proper business for two of the king's officers?" she asked. "Since you wish me to be frank, I do not," I replied, "but it was impossible for me to avoid it, and perhaps my antagonist will say the same concerning himself." "Why do you fight?" she asked. Then I knew that she had not heard the full tale, the cause of our quarrel, and I reflected for a moment while she looked at me with bright eyes. I felt like a little boy called up for punishment and seeking excuse. "It was over the cards," I said. "There was some talk about the measures that should be taken against the rebels. Lieutenant Belfort advocated more severity, I more mildness. I do not think the opinion of either would have had any influence on the policy of the Government, but that did not restrain our heat. We quarrelled like cabinet ministers at odds. There was a blow, I think, a demand for an apology, which was refused; and what followed is to be left to the seconds, who have not yet been named." "I do not believe you," she said, still holding me with her calm, bright eyes. I felt the hot blood flushing my face, but neither in her tone nor manner did she condemn me or speak as one who despised a man caught in a falsehood. Rather she was reproachful. "There is some other reason," she said, "and you will not tell it to me, but I shall not ask you again." I was silent, and she resumed,-- "Promise me that you will not fight this duel, Lieutenant Melville." I was as much surprised at the request as I had been when she asked me why Belfort and I were to meet. It was my first thought that she was in fear for him, and I asked with a little malice,-- "Do you make the same request of Lieutenant Belfort?" When I saw the faint flush of color rising in her face, I was sorry that I had asked the question. "No," she replied, "I would not make such a request of him, although I have known him longer than I have you." I was pleased, greatly pleased; but she reminded me that I had not answered her question. "The challenge has been issued," I said, "and if I withdraw at so late a moment I should be called a coward. Would you have me bear such a name in Philadelphia?" "No; but is there no other way?" "None that I know of." A look of sadness replaced the flush on her face. "It is a barbarous custom, I think," she said, "and belongs to a barbarous age. It is merely the better swordsman or marksman who wins, and not of necessity the better man. It decides no more than the hot ploughshare of the Middle Ages, and of the two customs I think the trial by hot iron was the saner."