“No doubt—no doubt. I cannot blame a man for choosing, when he has the liberty of choice, that weapon in the use of which he most particularly, from practice, excels.” “Yes; but if he be one half the swordsman he has had time enough, according to all accounts, to be, what sort of chance have you with him?” “Do I hear you reasoning thus?” “Yes, to be sure you do. I have turned wonderfully prudent, you see; so I mean to fight him myself, and mind, now, you have nothing whatever to do with it.” “An effort of prudence that, certainly.” “Well, didn’t I say so?” “Come—come, uncle, this won’t do. I have challenged Sir Francis Varney, and I must meet him with any weapon he may, as the challenged party, choose to select. Besides, you are not, I dare say, aware that I am a very good fencer, and probably stand as fair a chance as Varney in a contest with swords.” “Indeed!” “Yes, uncle. I could not be so long on the continent as I have been without picking up a good knowledge of the sword, which is so popular all over Germany.” “Humph! but only consider, this d—d fellow is no less than a hundred and fifty years old.” “I care not.” “Yes, but I do.” “Uncle, uncle, I tell you I will fight with him; and if you do not arrange matters for me so that I can have the meeting with this man, which I have myself sought, and cannot, even if I wished, now recede from with honour, I must seek some other less scrupulous friend to do so.” “Give me an hour or two to think of it, Charles,” said the admiral. “Don’t speak to any one else, but give me a little time. You shall have no cause of complaint. Your honour cannot suffer in my hands.” “I will wait your leisure, uncle; but remember that such affairs as these, when once broached, had always better be concluded with all convenient dispatch.” “I know that, boy—I know that.” The admiral walked away, and Charles, who really felt much fretted at the delay which had taken place, returned to the house. He had not been there long, when a lad, who had been temporarily hired during the morning by Henry to answer the gate, brought him a note, saying,— “A servant, sir, left this for you just now.” “For me?” said Charles, as he glanced at the direction. “This is strange, for I have no acquaintance about here. Does any one wait?” “No, sir.” The note was properly directed to him, therefore Charles Holland at once opened it. A glance at the bottom of the page told him that it came from his enemy, Sir Francis Varney, and then he read it with much eagerness. It ran thus:— “+Sir+,—Your uncle, as he stated himself to be, Admiral Bell, was the bearer to me, as I understood him this day, of a challenge from you. Owing to some unaccountable hallucination of intellect, he seemed to imagine that I intended to set myself up as a sort of animated target, for any one to shoot at who might have a fancy so to do.