Iberville laughed a little, and the laugh had fire in it--hatred, and the joy of battle. “Shall it be here or yonder in the pines, where we were in train last night?” “Yonder.” “So.” Then Iberville hummed ironically a song: “Oh, bury me where I have fought and fallen, Your scarf across my shoulder, lady mine.” They passed on. “The game is in our hands,” said Bucklaw. “I understand this thing. That’s a pair of gallant young sprigs, but the choice is your Frenchman, Radisson.” “I’ll pink his breast-bone full of holes if the other doesn’t--curse him.” A sweet laugh trickled from Bucklaw’s lips like oil. “That’s neither here nor there. I’d like to have him down Acapulco way, dear lad... And now, here’s my plan all changed. I’ll have my young lady out to stop the duel, and, God’s love, she’ll come alone. Once here she’s ours, and they may cut each other’s throats as they will, sweetheart.” He crossed the yard, tried the door,--unlocked, as he had left it,--pushed it open, and went in, groping his way to the door of the dining-room. He listened, and there was no sound. Then he heard some one go in. He listened again. Whoever it was had sat down. Very carefully he felt for the spring and opened the door. Jessica was seated at the table with paper and an ink-horn before her. She was writing. Presently she stopped--the pen was bad. She got up and went away to her room. Instantly Bucklaw laid his plan. He entered as she disappeared, went to the table and looked at the paper on which she had been writing. It bore but the words, “Dear Friend.” He caught up the quill and wrote hurriedly beneath them, this: “If you’d see two gentlemen fighting, go now where you stopped them last night. The wrong one may be killed unless.”