“I assure you, Mr. Taffril,” replied Lovel, “whatever were the rank of my parents, I should never think of concealing it from a spirit of petty pride. But I am so situated at present, that I cannot enter on the subject of my family with any propriety.” “It is quite enough,” said the honest sailor--“give me your hand; I’ll see you as well through this business as I can, though it is but an unpleasant one after all--But what of that? our own honour has the next call on us after our country;--you are a lad of spirit, and I own I think Mr. Hector M’Intyre, with his long pedigree and his airs of family, very much of a jackanapes. His father was a soldier of fortune as I am a sailor--he himself, I suppose, is little better, unless just as his uncle pleases; and whether one pursues fortune by land, or sea, makes no great difference, I should fancy.” “None in the universe, certainly,” answered Lovel. “Well,” said his new ally, “we will dine together and arrange matters for this rencounter. I hope you understand the use of the weapon?” “Not particularly,” Lovel replied. “I am sorry for that--M’Intyre is said to be a marksman.” “I am sorry for it also,” said Lovel, “both for his sake and my own: I must then, in self-defence, take my aim as well as I can.” “Well,” added Taffril, “I will have our surgeon’s mate on the field--a good clever young fellow at caulking a shot-hole. I will let Lesley, who is an honest fellow for a landsman, know that he attends for the benefit of either party. Is there anything I can do for you in case of an accident?” “I have but little occasion to trouble you,” said Lovel. “This small billet contains the key of my escritoir, and my very brief secret. There is one letter in the escritoir” (digesting a temporary swelling of the heart as he spoke), “which I beg the favour of you to deliver with your own hand.” “I understand,” said the sailor. “Nay, my friend, never be ashamed for the matter--an affectionate heart may overflow for an instant at the eyes, if the ship were clearing for action; and, depend on it, whatever your injunctions are, Dan Taffril will regard them like the bequest of a dying brother. But this is all stuff;--we must get our things in fighting order, and you will dine with me and my little surgeon’s mate, at the Graeme’s-Arms over the way, at four o’clock.” “Agreed,” said Lovel. “Agreed,” said Taffril; and the whole affair was arranged. It was a beautiful summer evening, and the shadow of the solitary thorn-tree was lengthening upon the short greensward of the narrow valley, which was skirted by the woods that closed around the ruins of St. Ruth. * * [Supposed to have been suggested by the old Abbey of Arbroath in * Forfarshire.] [Illustration: St. Ruth (arbroath Abbey)]