The boat would arrive at Natchez about daylight, and would remain there long enough to allow the meeting to take place.

Henry Carroll, though his chivalrous spirit was gratified at the opportunity to revenge the insult offered to Emily, was ill at ease.  To meet a man of no character (for such he supposed Maxwell to be) was not a very ornamental accompaniment to an affair of honor.  He had a hundred times braved death on the field of battle, but to die in a duel with such a man seemed to his now tranquillized mind anything but honorable.  Emily had retired, and he could not bid her farewell.  Perhaps he had seen her for the last time on earth, for the possibility of being killed himself tardily came to his mind.  He wrote a long letter to Emily, and another to Uncle Nathan.

The worthy Northerner had produced a very favorable impression upon his mind.  He knew his liberal soul, and the design of the letter was to interest him in her favor,—­to induce him to conduct her to his Northern home.

Henry returned to his couch with many painful doubts as to the morality, and even the expediency, of his course.  But the feeling of honor—­of false honor—­comforted him, and, animated by its spirit, he even looked forward with pleasure upon his revenge,—­upon the death of his opponent.  This would be in accordance with the justice of the case, and he flattered himself that justice, if it did not always prevail, would triumph in this instance.  With such reflections he closed his eyes, and sunk to his slumbers.

The Chalmetta moved lazily on her course.  Her lights had all been extinguished, and the idlers, who a few hours before had paced the decks, were now slumbering in their berths, or on the cabin floor.  The clock over the clerk’s office indicated the hour of twelve.  On the main deck forward the sleepy firemen were languidly supplying the furnaces; the engineers, less actively employed, had fallen asleep by the cylinders.

On the after quarter, laying flat upon the deck, were two men earnestly engaged in conversation, in which the whispered brogue of Pat Fegan might have been detected.  After the conversation had continued some time, one of them cautiously raised his head, as if to penetrate the gloom that enshrouded them.  Satisfied that they were alone, the two rose, and, without noise, climbed up one of the posts to the gallery which surrounded the cabin.  Then, with a light step, they passed on, and stopped before the state-room occupied by Vernon.

“Are you sure this is his room?” asked Hatchie, in a smothered whisper.

“Troth, I am, thin,” responded his companion; “but be aisy, or you’ll wake him.”

“The worse for him,” replied Hatchie, as his teeth ground together.

Hatchie placed his hand upon the door, and softly opened it.  The sleeper heard him not.  The negro groped about the room until his hand rested upon some pistols which lay on a trunk by the side of the berth.  These he took, and, handing two of them to Pat, retained the third in his hand.  Closing the door, they proceeded, as they had come, to the main deck.