“I know a method,” answered Norbert. “If I was certain that no human being was aware of your presence here to-night----” “No one can possibly know it.” “Then,” answered the Duke, “instead of taking advantage of the rights that the law gives me and shooting you down on the spot, I will consent to risk my life against yours.” George de Croisenois breathed a sigh of relief. “I am ready,” replied he, “as I before told you.” “I heard you; but remember that this will be no ordinary duel, in the light of day, with seconds to regulate the manner of our conduct.” “We will fight exactly as you wish.” “In that case, I name swords as the weapons, the garden as the spot, and this instant as the hour.” The Marquis cast a glance at the window. “You think,” observed Norbert, comprehending his look, “that the night is so dark that we cannot see the blades of our swords?” “Quite so.” “You need not fear; there will be light enough for this death struggle of the one who remains in the garden, for you understand that one _will_ remain.” “I understand you; shall we go down at once?” Norbert shook his head in the negative. “You are in too great a hurry,” said he, “and have not given me time to fix my conditions.” “I am listening.” “At the end of the garden there is a small plot of ground, so damp that nothing will grow there, and consequently is almost unfrequented; but for all that it is thither that you must follow me. We will each take spade and pick-axe, and in a very brief period we can hollow out a receptacle for the body of the one who falls. When this work is completed, we will take to our swords and fight to the death, and the one who can keep his feet shall finish his fallen adversary, drag his body to the hole, and shovel the earth over his remains.” “Never!” exclaimed Croisenois. “Never will I agree to such barbarous terms.” “Have a care then,” returned Norbert; “for I shall use my rights. That clock points to five minutes to eleven. If, when it strikes, you have not decided to accept my terms, I shall fire.” The barrel of the revolver was but a few inches from George de Croisenois’ heart, and the finger of his most inveterate enemy was curved round the trigger; but his feelings had been so highly wrought up that he thought not of this danger. He only remembered that he had four minutes in which to make up his mind. The events of the last thirty minutes had pressed upon each other’s heels with such surprising alacrity that he could hardly believe that they had really occurred, and it seemed to him as if it might not, after all, be only a hideous vision of the night. “You have only two minutes more,” remarked the Duke.