“That was the end of the affair,” he said. “I went home, accompanied by a _cortége_ of friends who seemed never weary of congratulating me; and on the next day, I wrote a mortal defiance to Judge Conway, which I placed in the hands of a friend to convey to him. An hour afterward, I had mounted my horse, ridden rapidly, caught up with this friend on his way to Five Forks, and had taken from him the challenge, which I tore to pieces. You will probably comprehend the motive which compelled me to do this. It was not repugnance to the modern form of single combat, I am sorry to say. Old as I was, I had still the ancient hallucination on that subject. I did not then know that duels were mere comedies--child’s play; that one infantry skirmish results in the shedding of more blood than all the affairs of a generation. The motive that induced me to withdraw my challenge, was one which you will probably understand. The pale face of the dead George Conway had risen up before me--I knew his brother’s deep love for him--that he regarded me as the dead man’s murderer; and I no longer writhed under that public insult in the court-house, or, at least controlled myself. ‘Let him go on his way, poor, stricken heart!’ I said with deep pity; ‘I forgive him, and will not avenge that affront to me!’ “Such is my history, colonel. It is sad, you see. I have related it to explain what has come to your knowledge--the bitter hostility which Judge Conway indulges toward me, and his frowns at the very name of Davenant. These events occurred more than ten years ago. During all that time, he has been laboring under the belief that I am really guilty of his brother’s blood. See where my ‘high pride’ has conducted me,” said General Davenant, with a smile of inexpressible melancholy and bitterness. “I was proud and disdainful on the day of my trial--I would not use the common weapons of defence--I risked my life by refusing counsel, and acknowledging the ownership of that knife. Pride, hauteur, a sort of disdain at refuting a charge of base dishonor--that was my sentiment then, and I remain as haughty to-day! I am a Davenant--I was found ‘not guilty’--why go and tell Judge Conway the contents of that letter received in the court-house?” “The contents of the letter, general?” “Yes, colonel.” “What did it contain?--I beg you to tell me!” “The confession of the murderer of George Conway!” XXIV. “BLOOD.” General Davenant had scarcely uttered the words which I have just recorded, when rapid firing was heard in the woods, a quarter of a mile from his head-quarters; and a moment afterward a courier came at a gallop, bearing a dispatch. “My horse!” came in the brief tone of command. And General Davenant tore open the dispatch, which he read attentively. “The enemy are advancing to attack me,” he said; “this note was written ten minutes since. The attack has commenced. Will you go and see it, colonel?” “Willingly.”