The seconds stepped aside for their conference, and the doctor retreated to the indicated oak.  Lewis Rand and Ludwell Cary exchanged a comment or two upon the weather, then fell silent.  The one presently sat down upon the root of a tree, and, drawing out a pocket-book, began to look over certain memoranda; the other walked near the river and stood gazing across its falls and eddies and innumerable fairy islands to the misty blue of the farther woods.  The seconds returned and proceeded to measure the distance—­ten paces, after which they loaded the pistols.  Skelton Jones advanced, the ends of two strips of paper showing from his closed hand.  “Gentlemen, you will draw for choice of position.  The longest strip carries the advantage.  Thank you.  Mr. Cary, Fortune favours you!  We are ready now, I think.”

The two laid aside their riding-coats.  Cary walked across the leaf-strewn lists and, turning, stood with his back to the sun.  Rand took the opposite place.  The seconds presented the loaded pistols.  As Cary took his from his brother, their hands touched—­that of the younger was marble cold.  Skelton Jones crossed to his principal’s right, and Fairfax Cary moved also to his proper place.  There was a minute’s pause while the sun shone and the leaves drifted down, then, “Are you ready, gentlemen?” cried Rand’s second.

The principals answered in the affirmative.  Fairfax Cary gave the word, “Present!” The two raised their weapons, and Skelton Jones began to count “One—­two—­three!  Fire!” Rand fired.  Cary swayed slightly, recovered himself, and stood firm.  Fairfax Cary took the count.  “One—­two—­three!  Fire!” The elder Cary slowly turned the muzzle of his pistol from his waiting antagonist, and fired into the air.

The report echoed from the winding river-banks.  For an appreciable moment, until it died away, the participants in the meeting stood motionless, then the seconds bestirred themselves and ran forward.

“But a single shot, each, gentlemen—­that was agreed upon!” cried the one, and the other, “Ludwell, you are wounded!  Where is it?  Dr. McClurg!  Dr. McClurg!”

“It is nothing, Fair,—­through the shoulder.”  Cary waved him aside and turned a face, pale but composed, upon Lewis Rand, who now stood before him.  Rand’s hue was dark red, his features working.  “Why,” he demanded hoarsely,—­“why did you not fire upon me?” The agitation, marked as it was, ceased or was controlled even as he spoke.  The colour faded, the brow lost its corrugations, and the voice its thickness.  Before his antagonist could reply, he spoke again.  “It was yours, of course, to do what you pleased with.  I sincerely trust that your wound is not deep.  I have regretted the necessity—­I profess myself entirely satisfied.”

“That is well,” answered Cary, “and I thank you, Mr. Rand.  The wound is utterly of no consequence.”

“Here is Dr. McClurg,” said Rand.  “I will wait yonder to hear that confirmed.”