Frank Warenne alone was not deceived, and could not doubt that his brother would resent the insult which he had received. He knew too well Warenne’s delicate sense of honour; and, recognising in the tranquillity of his demeanour the settled calmness of decision, he intuitively guessed the truth. Want of fraternal affection was not one of Frank’s failings, and he sought his chamber in a state of serious disquietude. He saw no means by which a rencontre could be prevented, nor any by which he might transfer to his own person the danger that threatened him he loved so dearly. He felt that honour, according to military custom, demanded from Warenne himself that he should require an apology from O’Neil; that in all probability O’Neil would not apologize; and they must therefore necessarily meet each other. He could not rest—he did not even attempt to lie down, but paced his room in restless anxiety hour after hour, forming a thousand different schemes to ensure his brother’s safety, yet unable to find one which should not compromise his fame. At last, about five o’clock, resolving to ascertain whether his fears were well founded, he stole across the passage to the door of Warenne’s room, and gently opened it. Warenne was writing, but started up at Frank’s entrance. “Is it you, Frank!” he exclaimed. “Forgive me, Gerald,” rejoined Frank, “but I am certain you are going to fight that scoundrel O’Neil, and I am wretched about it: I have passed the whole night in utter misery. Gerald! this may be our last meeting,” and as he spoke he flung himself upon his brother’s neck. “Do not unman me,” said Warenne; “just at this moment I have need of all my firmness, for I will not deny your conclusion with respect to O’Neil. Would that I could! for I abhor duelling from my soul. I cannot disguise from myself that it is a wicked and abominable practice, expressly contrary to the law of Him, in whom, notwithstanding the irregularities of my soldier’s life, I most sincerely trust,—if I may dare to say so in such an hour as this; neither can I forget that I am perhaps about to appear before him with the crime of murder, in intention at least, upon my soul. Still I have not the moral courage to break through custom, when the alternative is disgrace—but I must not think of these matters now. Let us talk of something else, Frank—I had just finished a letter to you as you came in, which I meant should be delivered to you in case I fell;—put it in your pocket, and return it to me, if all goes well—nay, do not read it. It contains only a few words of advice from your old Mentor, who would fain have you do justice to his instructions, and to yourself.”