"I shall do no such thing. Do you suppose, that if I fight with Everett, I shall try to kill him? No. I would not hurt a hair of his head. I am no murderer!" "Then you go out under the existence of a fatal inequality." "I cannot help that. It is my misfortune. I did not send the challenge." "That is no reason why you should not make an effort to preserve your own life." "If we both fire at once, and both of our balls take effect, the fact that my ball strikes him will not benefit me any. And suppose he should be killed, and I survive, do you think I could ever know a single hour's happiness? No--no--I choose the least of two evils. I must fight. But I will not kill." "In this you are determined?" "I certainly am. I have weighed the matter well, and come to a positive decision." "You choose pistols, then?" "Yes. Let the weapons be pistols." "When shall the meeting take place?" "Let it be to-morrow morning, at sunrise. The quicker it is over, the better." This determined upon, the friend went again to the second of Everett, and completed all necessary arrangements for the duel. It was midnight, and young doctor Lane sat alone in his chamber, beside a table, upon which were ink and paper. He had, evidently, made several attempts to write; and each time failed from some cause to accomplish his task. Several sheets of paper had been written upon, and thrown aside. Each of these bore the following words:-- "_My Dear Parents:--_When these lines are read by you, the hand that penned them will be cold and nerveless--" Thus far the unhappy young man could go, but no farther. Imagination pictured too vividly the heart-stricken father who had so often looked down upon him when a boy with pride and pleasure, and the tender, but now agonized mother, as that appalling announcement met their eyes. Again, for the fifth time, he took up his pen, murmuring in a low tone, yet with a resolute air, "It must be done!" He had again written the words:-- "My Dear Parents--" When his ear caught the sound of steps, strangely familiar to his ear, ascending the stairs, and approaching his chamber. He paused, and listened with a heart almost stilled in its pulsations. In a brief space, the door of his room opened, and a grey-haired, feeble old man came slowly in. "My father!" exclaimed Harvey, starting to his feet in astonishment--scarcely, for the moment, being able to realize whether it were indeed his father, or, only an apparition. "Thank heaven! that I have found my son alive--" ejaculated the old man, uncovering his head, and lifting his eyes upward. "O, Harvey, my child!" he then said, with an earnest pathos, that touched the young man's heart--"how could you so far forget us as to think even for a single moment of the dreadful act you are preparing to commit?"