“Major Cawmill has only to command,” said Bowie, and vanished down the stairs.

“Now, Claude, quick; read that and counsel me.  I ought to ask Scoutbush’s opinion; but the poor dear fellow is out, you see.”

Claude read the note written at Bangor.

“Fight him I will not!  I detest the notion:  a soldier should never fight a duel.  His life is the Queen’s, and not his own.  And yet if the honour of the family has been compromised by my folly, I must pay the penalty, if Scoutbush thinks it proper.”

So said Campbell, who, in the over-sensitiveness of his conscience, had actually worked himself round during the past night into this new fancy, as a chivalrous act of utter self-abasement.  The proud self-possession of the man was gone, and nothing but self-distrust and shame remained.

“In the name of all wit and wisdom, what is the meaning of all this?”

“You do not know, then, what passed last night?”

“I?  I can only guess that Vavasour has had one of his rages.”

“Then you must know,” said Campbell with an effort; “for you must explain all to Scoutbush when he returns; and I know no one more fit for the office.”  And he briefly told him the story.

Mellot was much affected.  “The wretched ape!  Campbell, your first thought was the true one:  you must not fight that cur.  After all, it’s a farce:  you won’t fire at him, and he can’t hit you—­so leave ill alone.  Beside, for Scoutbush’s sake, her sake, every one’s sake, the thing must be hushed up.  If the fellow chooses to duck under into the London mire, let him lie there, and forget him!”

“No, Claude; his pardon I must beg, ere I go out to the war:  or I shall die with a sin upon my soul.”

“My dear, noble creature! if you must go, I go with you.  I must see fair play between you and that madman; and give him a piece of my mind, too, while I am about it.  He is in my power:  or if not quite that, I know one in whose power he is! and to reason he shall be brought.”

“No; you must stay here.  I cannot trust Scoutbush’s head, and these poor dear souls will have no one to look to but you.  I can trust you with them, I know.  Me you will perhaps never see again.”

“You can trust me!” said the affectionate little painter, the tears starting to his eyes, as he wrung Campbell’s hand.

“Mind one thing!  If that Vavasour shows his teeth, there is a spell will turn him to stone.  Use it!”

“Heaven forbid!  Let him show his teeth.  It is I who am in the wrong.  Why should I make him more my enemy than he is?”

“Be it so.  Only, if the worst comes to the worst, call him not Elsley Vavasour, but plain John Briggs—­and see what follows.”

Valencia entered.

“The post has come in!  Oh, dear Major Campbell, is there a letter?”

He put the note into her hand in silence.  She read it, and darted back to Lucia’s room.