"A fine sight, Damon!" said Dalrymple, leaning on the parapet, and coolly lighting a cigar. "If my eyes are never to open on the day again, I am glad they should have rested for the last time on a scene of so much beauty! Where is the painter who could paint it? Not Claude himself, though he should come back to life on purpose, and mix his colors with liquid sunlight!" "You are a queer fellow," said I, "to talk of scenery and painters at such a moment!" "Not at all. Things are precious according to the tenure by which we hold them. For my part, I do not know when I appreciated earth and sky so heartily as this morning. _Tiens!_ here comes a carriage--our men, no doubt." "Are you a good shot?" I asked anxiously. "Pretty well. I can write my initials in bullet-holes on a sheet of notepaper at forty paces, or toss up half-a-crown as I ride at full gallop, and let the daylight through it as it comes down." "Thank Heaven!" "Not so fast, my boy. De Caylus is just as fine a shot, and one of the most skilful swordsmen in the French service." "Ay, but the first fire is yours!" "Is it? Well, I suppose it is. He struck the first blow, and so--here they come." "One more word, Dalrymple--did he really cheat you at _écarté?_" "Upon my soul, I don't know. He did hold the king very often, and there are some queer stories told of him in Vienna by the officers of the Emperor's Guard. At all events, this is not the first duel he has had to fight in defence of his good-fortune!" De Simoncourt now coming forward, we adjourned at once to the wood behind the village. A little open glade was soon found; the ground was soon measured; the pistols were soon loaded. De Caylus looked horribly pale, but it was the pallor of concentrated rage, with nothing of the craven hue in it. Dalrymple, on the contrary, had neither more nor less color than usual, and puffed away at his cigar with as much indifference as if he were waiting his turn at the pit of the Comédie Française. Both were clothed in black from head to foot, with their coats buttoned to the chin. "All is ready," said De Simoncourt. "Gentlemen, choose your weapons." De Caylus took his pistols one by one, weighed and poised them, examined the priming, and finally, after much hesitation, decided. Dalrymple took the first that came to hand. The combatants then took their places--De Caylus with his hat pulled low over his eyes; Dalrymple still smoking carelessly. They exchanged bows. "Major Dalrymple," said De Simoncourt, "it is for you to fire first." "God bless you, Damon!" said my friend, shaking me warmly by the hand. He then half turned aside, flung away the end of his cigar, lifted his right arm suddenly, and fired. I heard the dull thud of the ball--I saw De Caylus fling up his arms and fall forward on the grass. I saw Dalrymple running to his assistance. The next instant, however, the wounded man was on his knees, ghastly and bleeding, and crying for his pistol.