“Why—­that would be murder,” Alice spoke aghast.  “You must find David’s seconds and warn them.”

“I’ve tried all afternoon to locate them ... they’re hidden ... afraid of arrest.”

* * * * *

Despite the secrecy with which the second meeting was arranged, some three score spectators were already assembled at the duelling ground when Broderick and Terry arrived.  It was not far from where they had met on the previous morning, but no officer appeared to interrupt their combat.  Both men looked nervous and worn, especially Broderick, who had spent the night in a flea-infested hut on the ocean shore at the suggestion of his seconds who feared further interference.  Terry had fared better, being quartered at the farm house of a friend who provided breakfast and a flask of rum.

The seconds tossed for position and those of Broderick won.  The choice of pistols, too, was left to chance, which favored Terry.  Joe McKibben thought he saw a smile light the faces of Benham and Hayes, a smile of secret understanding.  The French pistols were produced and Hayes, with seeming care, selected one of them.  McKibben took the other.  He saw Benham whisper something to Terry as the latter grasped his weapon, saw the judge’s eyes light with a sudden satisfaction.

“You will fire between the words ‘one’ and ’two’,” Colton announced crisply.  “Are you ready, gentlemen?”

Terry answered “Yes” immediately.  Broderick, who was endeavoring to adjust the unfamiliar stock of the foreign pistol to his grasp, did not hear.  McKibben repeated, “Are you ready, Dave?” in an undertone.  Broderick looked up with nervous and apologetic haste, “Yes, yes, quite ready,” he replied.

“One,” called Colton.  Broderick’s pistol spoke.  Discharged apparently before aim could be taken; his bullet struck the ground at Terry’s feet.  Broderick, now defenseless, waited quietly.  “Two,” the word came.  Terry, who had taken careful aim, now fired.  Broderick staggered, recovered himself.  His face was distorted with pain.  Slowly he sank to one knee; sidewise upon his elbow, then lay prone.

* * * * *

It was Sunday, September 18th.  In the plaza a catafalque had been erected, draped in black.  Upon it stood a casket covered with flowers.  An immense crowd was about it, strangely silent.  Across the platform a constant stream of people filed, each stopping a moment to gaze at a face that lay still and peaceful, seemingly composed in sleep.  It was a keen and striking face; the forehead bespoke intellect and high resolve; the jaw and chin indomitable; aggressive bravery.  Over all there was a stamp of sadness and of loneliness that caught one’s heart.  Friends, political compatriots and erstwhile enemies paid David Broderick a final tribute as they passed; few without a twitching of the lips.  Tears ran down the faces of both men and women.  The crowd murmured.  Then the splendid moving voice of Colonel Baker poured forth an oration like Mark Anthony above the bier of Caesar: