“Results be damned!” I answered.  “I can kill you if I wish.”  Then it occurred to me that I really did not wish to kill the handsome young fellow toward whom I felt an irresistible attraction.

I continued:  “But I prefer that you should owe me your life.  I do not wish to kill you.  Guard!”

My opponent did not lift his sword, but smilingly said:—­

“Then why do you insist upon fighting?  I certainly do not wish to kill you.  In truth, I would be inclined to like you if you were not a Vernon.”

“Damn your insolence!  Guard! or I will run you through where you stand,” I answered angrily.

“But why do we fight?” insisted the stubborn fellow, with a coolness that showed he was not one whit in fear of me.

“You should know,” I replied, dropping my sword-point to the floor, and forgetting for the moment the cause of our quarrel.  “I—­I do not.”

“Then let us not fight,” he answered, “until we have discovered the matter of our disagreement.”

At this remark neither of us could resist smiling.  I had not fought since months before, save for a moment at the gates of Dundee, and I was loath to miss the opportunity, so I remained in thought during the space of half a minute and remembered our cause of war.

“Oh!  I recall the reason for our fighting,” I replied, “and a good one it was.  You offered affront to the name of Sir George Vernon, and insultingly refused me the courtesy of your name after I had done you the honor to tell you mine.”

“I did not tell you my name,” replied the stranger, “because I believed you would not care to hear it; and I said I was glad not to know Sir George Vernon because—­because he is my father’s enemy.  I am Sir John Manners.  My father is Lord Rutland.”

Then it was my turn to recede.  “You certainly are right.  I do not care to hear your name.”

I put my sword in its scabbard and drew the table back to its former place.  Sir John stood in hesitation for a moment or two, and then said:—­

“Sir Malcolm, may we not declare a truce for to-night?  There is nothing personal in the enmity between us.”

“Nothing,” I answered, staring at the fire, half regretful that we bore each other enmity at all.

“You hate me, or believe you do,” said Manners, “because your father’s cousin hates my father; and I try to make myself believe that I hate you because my father hates your father’s cousin.  Are we not both mistaken?”

I was quick to anger and to fight, but no man’s heart was more sensitive than mine to the fair touch of a kind word.

“I am not mistaken, Sir John, when I say that I do not hate you,” I answered.

“Nor do I hate you, Sir Malcolm.  Will you give me your hand?”

“Gladly,” I responded, and I offered my hand to the enemy of my house.

“Landlord,” I cried, “bring us two bottles of your best sack.  The best in the house, mind you.”