It was not that he feared death, but that he looked with a decent gravity upon so grave a change as that from this world to the next, and hence was it that his face was pale, and that he looked all the emotion which he really felt. This was the aspect and the bearing of a brave but not a reckless man; while Sir Francis Varney, on the other hand, seemed, now that he had fairly engaged in the duel, to look upon it and its attendant circumstances with a kind of smirking satisfaction, as if he were far more amused than personally interested. This was certainly the more extraordinary after the manner in which he had tried to evade the fight, and, at all events, was quite a sufficient proof that cowardice had not been his actuating motive in so doing. The admiral, who stood on a level with him, could not see the sort of expression he wore, or, probably, he would have been far from well pleased; but the others did, and they found something inexpressibly disagreeable in the smirking kind of satisfaction with which the vampyre seemed to regard now the proceedings. “Confound him,” whispered Marchdale to Henry, “one would think he was quite delighted, instead, as we had imagined him, not well pleased, at these proceedings; look how he grins.” “It is no matter,” said Henry; “let him wear what aspect he may, it is the same to me; and, as Heaven is my judge, I here declare, if I did not think myself justified in so doing, I would not raise my hand against this man.” “There can be no shadow of a doubt regarding your justification. Have at him, and Heaven protect you.” “Amen!” The admiral was to give the word to fire, and now he and Marchdale having stepped sufficiently on one side to be out of all possible danger from any stray shot, he commenced repeating the signal,— “Are you ready, gentlemen?—once.” They looked sternly at each other, and each grasped his pistol. “Twice!” Sir Francis Varney smiled and looked around him, as if the affair were one of the most common-place description. “Thrice!” Varney seemed to be studying the sky rather than attending to the duel. “Fire!” said the admiral, and one report only struck upon the ear. It was that from Henry’s pistol. All eyes were turned upon Sir Francis Varney, who had evidently reserved his fire, for what purpose could not be devised, except a murderous one, the taking of a more steady aim at Henry. Sir Francis, however, seemed in no hurry, but smiled significantly, and gradually raised the point of his weapon. “Did you hear the word, Sir Francis? I gave it loud enough, I am sure. I never spoke plainer in my life; did I ever, Jack?” “Yes, often,” said Jack Pringle; “what’s the use of your asking such yarns as them? you know you have done so often enough when you wanted grog.” “You d—d rascal, I’ll—I’ll have your back scored, I will.” “So you will, when you are afloat again, which you never will be—you’re paid off, that’s certain.”