Mr. Riddle stripped off his coat and waistcoat and ruffles, and his sword-belt, and Mr. Darnley did the same. Both gentlemen drew their swords and advanced to the middle of the lawn, and stood opposite one another, with flowing linen shirts open at the throat, and bared heads. They were indeed a contrast. Mr. Riddle, tall and white, with closed lips, glared at his opponent. Mr. Darnley cut a merrier figure,--rotund and flushed, with fat calves and short arms, though his countenance was sober enough. All at once the two were circling their swords in the air, and then Nick had flung open the shutter and leaped through the window, and was running and shouting towards the astonished gentlemen, all of whom wheeled to face him. He jingled as he ran. "What in the devil's name now?" cried Mr. Riddle, angrily. "Here's this imp again." Nicholas stopped in front of him, and, thrusting his hand in his breeches pocket, fished out a handful of gold and silver, which he held out to the confounded Mr. Riddle. "Harry," said he, "here's something of yours I found last night." "You found?" echoed Mr. Riddle, in a strange voice, amidst a dead silence. "You found where?" "On the table beside you." "And where the deuce were you?" Mr. Riddle demanded. "In the window behind you," said Nick, calmly. This piece of information, to Mr. Riddle's plain discomfiture, was greeted with a roar of laughter, Mr. Darnley himself laughing loudest. Nor were these gentlemen satisfied with that. They crowded around Mr. Riddle and slapped him on the back, Mr. Darnley joining in with the rest. And presently Mr. Riddle flung away his sword, and laughed, too, giving his hand to Mr. Darnley. At length Mr. Darnley turned to Nick, who had stood all this while behind them, unmoved. "My friend," said he, seriously, "such is your regard for human life, you will probably one day--be a pirate or an outlaw. This time we've had a laugh. The next time somebody will be weeping. I wish I were your father." "I wish you were," said Nick. This took Mr. Darnley's breath. He glanced at the other gentlemen, who returned his look significantly. He laid his hand kindly on the lad's head. "Nick," said he, "I wish to God I were your father." After that they all went home, very merry, to breakfast, Nick and I coming after them. Nick was silent until we reached the house. "Davy," said he, then, "how old are you?" "Ten," I answered. "How old did you believe me?" "Eighty," said he. The next day, being Sunday, we all gathered in the little church to hear Mr. Mason preach. Nick and I sat in the high box pew of the family with Mrs. Temple, who paid not the least attention to the sermon. As for me, the rhythm of it held me in fascination. Mr. Mason had written it out and that afternoon read over this part of it to Nick. The quotation I recall, having since read it many times, and the gist of it was in this wise:--