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“Well, I do; and I’m going to put an end to it. I’m going to have it out with Ned Keene. He is breaking her heart.”

“But are you the right one to take the matter up?”

“Who else is there to do it?”

“Her father.”

“He sees nothing, comprehends nothing. ‘Practical type–poetic type–misunderstandings sure to arise–come together after a while each supply the other’s deficiencies.’ Cursed folly! And the girl so unhappy that she can’t tell anyone. It shall not go on, I say. Keene is out on the road now, taking one of his infernal walks. I’m going to meet him.”

“I’m afraid it will make trouble. Let me go with you.”

“The trouble is made. Come if you like. I’m going now.”

The night lay heavy upon the forest. Where the road dipped through the valley we could hardly see a rod ahead of us. But higher up where the way curved around the breast of the mountain, the woods were thin on the left, and on the right a sheer precipice fell away to the gorge of the brook. In the dim starlight we saw Keene striding toward us. Graham stepped out to meet him.

“Where have you been, Ned Keene?” he cried. The cry was a challenge. Keene lifted his head and stood still. Then he laughed and took a step forward.

“Taking a long walk, Jack Graham,,” he answered. “It was glorious. You should have been with me. But why this sudden question?”

“Because your long walk is a pretence. You are playing false. There is some woman that you go to see at West Point, at Highland Falls, who knows where?”

Keene laughed again.

“Certainly you don’t know, my dear fellow; and neither do I. Since when has walking become a vice in your estimation? You seem to be in a fierce mood. What’s the matter?”

“I will tell you what’s the matter. You have been acting like a brute to the girl you profess to love.”

“Plain words! But between friends frankness is best. Did she ask you to tell me?”

“No! You know too well she would die before she would speak. You are killing her, that is what you are doing with your devilish moods and mysteries. You must stop. Do you hear? You must give her up.”

“I hear well enough, and it sounds like a word for her and two for yourself. Is that it?”

“Damn you,” cried the younger man, “let the words go! we’ll settle it this way”—-and he sprang at the other’s throat.

Keene, cool and well-braced, met him with a heavy blow in the chest. He recoiled, and I rushed between them, holding Graham back, and pleading for self-control. As we stood thus, panting and confused, on the edge of the cliff, a singing voice floated up to us from the shadows across the valley. It was Herrick’s song again:

A heart as soft, a heart as kind,
A heart as sound and free
Is in the whole world thou canst find,
That heart I’ll give to thee.

“Come, gentlemen,” I cried, “this is folly, sheer madness. You can never deal with the matter in this way. Think of the girl who is singing down yonder. What would happen to her, what would she suffer, from scandal, from her own feelings, if either of you should be killed, or even seriously hurt by the other? There must be no quarrel between you.”

“Certainly,” said Keene, whose poise, if shaken at all, had returned, “certainly, you are right. It is not of my seeking, nor shall I be the one to keep it up. I am willing to let it pass. It is but a small matter at most.”

I turned to Graham–“And you?”