“My business, sir, is as urgent as any can be. It has the first claim on me, much as I would fain serve you. I dare not lose an hour.” “But, good heaven, sir, have I not told you my affair is one of life or death?” “And so is mine,” said the strange gentleman, stepping back to be out of range of the chaise-lamp, which the postilion had now lighted. Everell followed into the darker gloom, pleading desperately: “But consider, sir, my case concerns the happiness of a woman.” “Mine concerns the safety of a man.” “Good God!” exclaimed Everell, maddened at the other’s phlegmatic brevity of speech. “To see these horses ready for the road, to need them as I do, to know how she must suffer if I—Sir, I entreat you: I must have these horses: I demand them in the sacred name of love.” “I require them in the sacred interest of friendship,” was the answer. “Friendship!” laughed Everell, scornfully. “The love of man and woman—do you know what that is?” “None knows better; but at present I serve the friendship of man for man. One task at a time. Were I not entered upon this, I would do much to oblige you. I can only wish you better fortune than you expect; and—good night.” With that the stranger went toward the chaise, all being now ready for departure. “Not yet good night, either!” cried Everell, stepping into the other’s way. “’Tis a rude thing I do, but necessity compels me. If your mission is all to you, mine is all to me. Let our swords decide for us—I see you wear one.” “I wear one,” said the gentleman, patiently, “but I had rather not draw it now.” “You had rather be commanded, then,” said Everell, drawing his own. “You have a toothache, I hear. A gentleman with a toothache ought not to travel at night. For your own good, I must forbid you.” “And you have a bad cold, as your voice betrays. A gentleman with a bad cold ought still less to travel at night.” And the stranger now calmly drew. “Make way, sir, if you please.” “Stand back, sir,” replied Everell, “till I call the lady to enter the chaise.”