“You never know. Accidents happen--you must be out of practice, and then, it cannot be right. I don’t believe you are afraid--I am sure you are not--but I do not want you to fight. I am afraid--I am a mortal coward about you. You must not accept a challenge, if he sends one. I shall die of fear. I shall, indeed.” “If it should become necessary to fight, I am any man’s equal. My sword and my hands are trained to perfection. Even Achille admits my superiority. I, personally, should not be in the least danger. In fact, I am both with sword and pistol so much more expert than Gilson that it would be almost cowardice, as well as cruelty, to meet him in a duel. There could be no justice in such a trial of right or wrong--but how few people can know this? Or knowing it, feel that it might bind me as an honourable man to refuse the duel.” “I pray you, Leonard, take my advice, and do not go to Achille. It would be ‘fight, of course you must fight,’ with Achille. He would hear of nothing else. And for my sake, Leonard, you must not fight. In the long run, father would be angry if you did, and perhaps make it an excuse for separating us. Leonard, promise me on your honour not to fight. If you come to me with bloody hands I will not take them. And if you let out life with either sword or pistol your hand will be forevermore bloody. No water will cleanse it, no good woman will touch it, no saint in heaven clasp it--better cut it off, and cast it from you, than stain it for all eternity.” She was quivering with feeling, her eyes were full of tears, and her voice had those tones of tender authority which subjugate as well as persuade. “My dear darling little preacher,” Leonard answered, “I promise you these hands shall never do anything to make them unworthy to clasp yours.” And he took her hand, pressed it firmly between his own, and kissed his promise upon it. Then she rose smiling; they walked together to madame’s house, and at the gate they parted. But though somewhat comforted, Leonard did not feel as if the way before him had been either cleared or lightened; in fact, his promise to Sappha had in some measure closed the only apparent exit out of the dilemma. At the moment of promising he had been carried away by his love, and had not thought of contingencies; but as soon as he was alone “the tangle” became more and more of a tangle; and unfortunately it was Saturday evening; the streets were quiet, business nearly over for the week, men generally either at home with their families, or enjoying in their company the sail up the river or the concert on the Battery. Not knowing what to do, or where to go, he did nothing, and went nowhere but to his rooms in the City Hotel. He was determined to make no false step. Hurry in this matter might have calamitous consequences. Out of just such false, wicked words lifelong tragedies had often come. And there was Sappha--he must consider Sappha before himself.