It was nine o’clock of a November morning when a coach, driven out from Richmond, passed a country tavern and a blacksmith’s shop, and, turning from the main road, went jolting through a stubble-field down to the steep and grassy bank of the James.  It was a morning fine and clear, with the hoar frost yet upon the ground.  The trees, of which there were many, were bare, saving the oaks, which yet held a rusty crimson.  In the fields the crows were cawing, and beyond the network of branch and bough the river flashed and murmured among its multitude of islets.  The place was solitary, screened from the highroad by a rise of land, and fitted for a lovers’ meeting or for other concerns of secrecy.

The coach drew up beneath a spreading oak with the mistletoe clustering in the dull red upper branches.  Three men stepped out,—­Lewis Rand, the gentleman acting as his second, and a good physician.  “We are first on the field,” said Rand, looking at his watch.  “It is early yet.  Pompey, drive a hundred yards down the bank—­as far as those bushes yonder—­and wait until you are called.  Ha! there could be no better spot, Mr. Jones!”

“I’ve seen no better in my experience, sir,” answered Skelton Jones.  “When I was last out, we had the worst of fare!—­starveling locust wood—­damned poor makeshift at gentlemanly privacy—­stuck between a schoolhouse and a church!  But this is good; this is nonpareil!  Fine, brisk, frosty weather, too!  I hate to fight on a muggy, leaden, dispirited day, weeping like a widow!  It’s as crisp as mint, this morning—­hey, Doctor?”

“I find,” said the doctor, in a preoccupied tone, “that I’ve left my best probe at home.  However, no matter—­I’ve one I can use.

“I hear wheels,” remarked Rand.  “He is on the hour.”

A chaise mounted the knoll of furrowed land and came down to the grassy level and the waiting figures.  It stopped, and Ludwell Cary and his brother got out.  “Drive over there where the coach is standing,” directed the latter, and chaise and negro driver rolled away.  The elder Cary walked forward, paused within a few feet of his antagonist, and the two bowed ceremoniously.

“I trust that I have not kept you waiting, Mr. Rand.”

“Not in the least, Mr. Cary.  The hour has but struck.”

Fairfax Cary strode up, and the salutations became general.  Skelton Jones looked briskly at his watch.  “With your leave, gentlemen, we’ll to formalities.  The Washington stage has just gone by, and we will all wish to get back for the mail.  Mr. Fairfax Cary, shall we walk a little to one side?  You have, I see, the case of pistols.  Dr. McClurg, if you will kindly station yourself beneath yonder oak—­”