“Well,” said Jarvis, in a tone that denoted anything but a consciousness that all was well.

“He says he will not meet you,” dryly exclaimed his friend, throwing himself into a chair, and ordering a glass of randy and water.

“Not meet me!” exclaimed Jarvis, in surprise.  “Engaged, perhaps?”

“Engaged to his d—­d conscience.”

“To his conscience!  I do not know whether I rightly understand you, Captain Digby,” said Jarvis, catching his breath, and raising his voice a very little.

“Then, Captain Jarvis,” said his friend, tossing off his brandy, and speaking with great deliberation, “he says that nothing—­understand me—­nothing will ever make him fight a duel.”

“He will not!” cried Jarvis, in a loud voice.

“No, he will not,” said Digby, handing his glass to the waiter for a fresh supply.

“He shall, by——!”

“I don’t know how you will make him.”

“Make him!  I’ll—­I’ll post him.”

“Never do that,” said the captain, turning to him, as he leaned his elbows on the table.  “It only makes both parties ridiculous.  But I’ll tell you what you may do.  There’s a Lord Chatterton who takes the matter up with warmth.  If I were not afraid of his interests hurting my promotion, I should have resented something that fell from him myself.  He will fight, I dare say, and I’ll just return and require an explanation of his words on your behalf.”

“No, no,” said Jarvis, rather hastily; “he—­he is related to the Moseleys, and I have views there it might injure.”

“Did you think to forward your views by making the young lady the subject of a duel?” asked Captain Digby sarcastically, and eyeing his companion with contempt.

“Yes, yes,” said Jarvis; “it would certainly hurt my views.”

“Here’s to the health of His Majesty’s gallant ——­ regiment of foot!” cried Captain Digby, in a tone of irony, when three-quarters drunk, at the mess-table, that evening, “and to its champion, Captain Henry Jarvis!”

One of the corps was present accidentally as a guest; and the following week, the inhabitants of F——­ saw the regiment in their barracks, marching to slow time after the body of Horace Digby.

Lord Chatterton, in relating the part of the foregoing circumstances which fell under his observation, did ample justice to the conduct of Denbigh; a degree of liberality which did him no little credit, as he plainly saw in that gentleman he had, or soon would have, a rival in the dearest wish of his heart; and the smiling approbation with which his cousin Emily rewarded him for his candor almost sickened him with apprehension.  The ladies were not slow in expressing their disgust at the conduct of Jarvis, or backward in their approval of Denbigh’s forbearance.  Lady Moseley turned with horror from a picture in which she could see nothing but murder and bloodshed; but both Mrs. Wilson and her niece secretly applauded