guilt and punishment of self-murder.  Bellamy was reputed a first-rate shot.  Michael was aware of the fact, and hugged the consciousness to his soul.  He would not detract from his reputation; the duellist should add another laurel to his chaplet of honour, and purchase it with his blood.  He had resolved to fight and fall.  It was very evident that the friend of Mr Bellamy expected rather to frighten Michael into a humble and contrite apology, than to find him ready and eager for the battle; for he commenced his mission by a very long and high-flown address, and assured Mr Allcraft, time after time, that nothing but the most ample and the most public amende could be received by his friend after what had taken place.  Michael listened impatiently, and interrupted the speaker in the midst of his oration.

“You are quite right, sir,” said he.  “If an apology is to be made, it should be an ample one.  But I decline to make any whatever.  I am prepared to give Mr Bellamy all the satisfaction that he asks.  I will refer you at once to my friend, and the sooner the affair is settled the better.”

“Well, but surely, Mr Allcraft, you must regret the strong expression”—­

“Which I uttered to your friend?  By no means.  I told him that he lied.  I repeat the word to you.  I would say it in his teeth again if he stood here.  What more is necessary?”

“Nothing,” said the gentleman, certainly unprepared for Michael’s resolution.  “Nothing; name your friend, sir.”

Michael had already fixed upon a second, and he told his name.  His visitor went to seek him, and the poor bewildered man rubbed his hands gleefully, as though he had just saved his life, instead of having placed it in such fearful jeopardy.

That day passed like a dream.  The meeting was quickly arranged.  Six o’clock on the following morning was the hour fixed.  The place was a field, the first beyond the turnpike gate, and within a mile of the city.  As soon as Michael made sure of the duel, he saw his confidential clerk.  His name was Burrage.  He had been a servant in the banking-house for forty years, and had known Michael since his birth.  It was he who gave the newspaper into Allcraft’s hands, on the first arrival of the latter at the bank that morning.  He was a quiet old man of sixty, an affectionate creature, and as much a part of the banking-house as the iron chest, the desk, the counter, or any other solid fixture.  He stepped softly into his master’s room after he had been summoned there, and he gazed at his unhappy principal as a father might at his own child in misfortune—­a beloved and favourite child.

“You are not well this morning, sir,” said Burrage most respectfully.  “You look very pale and anxious.”

“My looks belie me, Burrage.  I am very well.  I have not been so well for years.  I am composed and happy.  I have been ill, but the time is past.  How old are you, Burrage?”