As he proceeded, Warenne regained his habitual self-command, and Frank, his mind unconsciously imbibing a portion of his brother’s calmness, became more tranquil. They talked on with composure, and even cheerfulness, of the future prospects of the latter. It was now six o’clock, and Warenne begged Frank to leave him to a few minutes repose. The sad conviction that this might be their last interview once more forced itself on the mind of the latter, and he would have relieved his bursting heart by tears, had he not feared to give pain to one he loved better than himself. He lingered for a while on his brother’s neck, pressed him yet closer to his heart, then invoking every blessing upon his head, and receiving from him a fond but solemn benediction in return, he rushed to his own chamber, where he threw himself on his bed, and, after a few minutes, fairly sobbed himself to sleep. About a quarter before seven Stuart knocked at Warenne’s door, with the intelligence that O’Neil would not apologise. Nothing remained therefore to be done but to proceed to the meeting, and in a few minutes the two friends were on the road to a sequestered spot a short distance from the town, which Stuart and O’Neil’s second had selected. It is not necessary to relate the particulars of a duel; suffice it to say, that the affair was properly conducted, and that O’Neil fell at the first fire, severely, but not dangerously, wounded; while Warenne received his antagonist’s ball in the fleshy part of his right arm, just above the elbow. As soon as the latter saw the effect of his fire he ran up to O’Neil, and endeavoured as well as he could to raise him up, with a feeling of anguish he alone can estimate who finds himself with blood upon his hand, shed, not under excitement, nor in a moment of passion, but coolly and unnecessarily, in compliance with the customs of the world. Nor was his distress alleviated, when as he waited with impatience the opinion of the surgeon on the nature and extent of the injury he had inflicted, the wounded man took his hand and said— “If I die, I forgive you; my own folly has been the cause of my death.” He could have cursed himself for his crime. His suspense, however, lasted not long. The surgeon, after an accurate examination into the direction of the ball, pronounced that no vital part was injured, and that “Mr. O’Neil would be as sound a man as ever in three months.” Never did sounds of sweetest melody fall so pleasantly on Warenne’s ear, as the oracular dictum of his old fellow campaigner, Mr. Morris, the regimental Æsculapius. There seemed to be a weight taken from his breast, which he felt it would have been impossible for him to sustain. “Thank Heaven!” murmured he to himself, “I am not a murderer!” Then turning to O’Neil, he said aloud, “We part friends, I hope, not the less that you are to live.”