It had been left to us to produce the pistols.  We therefore requested the seconds of our opponent to examine and to load them.  While this was being done, the advancing sea-fog so completely enveloped us that the duelists were unable to see each other.  We were obliged to wait for the chance of a partial clearing in the atmosphere.  Romayne’s temper had become calm again.  The generosity of his nature spoke in the words which he now addressed to his seconds.  “After all,” he said, “the young man is a good son—­he is bent on redressing what he believes to be his father’s wrong.  Does his flipping his glove in my face matter to me?  I think I shall fire in the air.”

“I shall refuse to act as your second if you do,” answered the French gentleman who was assisting us.  “The General’s son is famous for his skill with the pistol.  If you didn’t see it in his face just now, I did—­he means to kill you.  Defend your life, sir!” I spoke quite as strongly, to the same purpose, when my turn came.  Romayne yielded—­he placed himself unreservedly in our hands.

In a quarter of an hour the fog lifted a little.  We measured the distance, having previously arranged (at my suggestion) that the two men should both fire at the same moment, at a given signal.  Romayne’s composure, as they faced each other, was, in a man of his irritable nervous temperament, really wonderful.  I placed him sidewise, in a position which in some degree lessened his danger, by lessening the surface exposed to the bullet.  My French colleague put the pistol into his hand, and gave him the last word of advice.  “Let your arm hang loosely down, with the barrel of the pistol pointing straight to the ground.  When you hear the signal, only lift your arm as far as the elbow; keep the elbow pressed against your side—­and fire.”  We could do no more for him.  As we drew aside—­I own it—­my tongue was like a cinder in my mouth, and a horrid inner cold crept through me to the marrow of my bones.

The signal was given, and the two shots were fired at the same time.

My first look was at Romayne.  He took off his hat, and handed it to me with a smile.  His adversary’s bullet had cut a piece out of the brim of his hat, on the right side.  He had literally escaped by a hair-breadth.

While I was congratulating him, the fog gathered again more thickly than ever.  Looking anxiously toward the ground occupied by our adversaries, we could only see vague, shadowy forms hurriedly crossing and recrossing each other in the mist.  Something had happened!  My French colleague took my arm and pressed it significantly.  “Leave me to inquire,” he said.  Romayne tried to follow; I held him back—­we neither of us exchanged a word.