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“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?”

“I had hoped to be spared this severest trial of all,” the young man said, rising and grasping the hand of his father, while the tears sprang to his eyes. “What officious friend has taken the pains to disturb both your peace and mine–dragging you thus away from your home, in the vain effort to prevent an act that must take place.”

“Speak not so rashly, my son! It cannot, it must not, it shall not take place!”

“I have no power to prevent it, father.”

“You are a free agent.”

“Not to do a deed of dishonour,–or, rather, I am not free to suffer dishonour.”

“There is no honour in wantonly risking or taking life, Harvey.”

“I insulted a friend, in the grossest manner.”

“That was dishonourable. But why did you insult him?”

“I was flushed with wine.”

The old man shook his head, sadly.

“I know it was wrong, father. But it can’t be helped now. Well, as I said; I insulted him, and he has demanded satisfaction. Can I do less than give it to him?”

“If you insulted him, you can apologize. And, from what I know of James Everett, he will at once forgive.”

“I cannot do that now, father. He threw a bottle of wine at my head, and then precipitately challenged me. I owe at least something to myself.”

“And something, I should think, to your mother, if not to me,” replied the old man, bitterly. “How, think you she will receive the news of your death, if the combat should terminate fatally for you? Or, how, if your hands should become stained with the blood of your friend?”

“Talk not thus, father! Talk not thus!” ejaculated the young man, rising up quickly, and beginning to pace the floor of his chamber with hurried steps. “Is not my situation dreadful enough viewed in any light? Then why seek to agonize my heart with what I would gladly forget? I am already racked with tortures that can scarcely be endured–why seek to run my cup of misery over?”