“There they stood then, back to back, with the mouths of their pistols to the sky.  ‘Un!’ I cried, ‘deux! tirez!’ They turned, I saw the smoke of his shot go straight up like a prayer; his pistol dropped.  I ran to him.  He looked surprised, put out his hand, and fell into my arms.  He was dead.  Those fools came running up.  ‘What is it?’ cried one.  I made him a bow.  ‘As you see,’ I said; ’you have made a pretty shot.  My friend fired in the air.  Messieurs, you had better breakfast in Italy.’  We carried him to the carriage, and covered him with a rug; the others drove for the frontier.  I brought him to his room.  Here is his letter.”  Jules stopped; tears were running down his face.  “He is dead; I have closed his eyes.  Look here, you know, we are all of us cads—­it is the rule; but this—­this, perhaps, was the exception.”  And without another word he rushed away....

Outside the old fellow’s lodging a dismounted cocher was standing disconsolate in the sun.  “How was I to know they were going to fight a duel?” he burst out on seeing me.  “He had white hair—­I call you to witness he had white hair.  This is bad for me:  they will ravish my licence.  Aha! you will see—­this is bad for me!” I gave him the slip and found my way upstairs.  The old fellow was alone, lying on the bed, his feet covered with a rug as if he might feel cold; his eyes were closed, but in this sleep of death, he still had that air of faint surprise.  At full length, watching the bed intently, Freda lay, as she lay nightly when he was really asleep.  The shutters were half open; the room still smelt slightly of rum.  I stood for a long time looking at the face:  the little white fans of moustache brushed upwards even in death, the hollows in his cheeks, the quiet of his figure; he was like some old knight....  The dog broke the spell.  She sat up, and resting her paws on the bed, licked his face.  I went downstairs—­I couldn’t bear to hear her howl.  This was his letter to me, written in a pointed handwriting: 

“My dear sir,—­Should you read this, I shall be gone.  I am ashamed to trouble you—­a man should surely manage so as not to give trouble; and yet I believe you will not consider me importunate.  If, then, you will pick up the pieces of an old fellow, I ask you to have my sword, the letter enclosed in this, and the photograph that stands on the stove buried with me.  My will and the acknowledgments of my property are between the leaves of the Byron in my tin chest; they should go to Lucy Tor—­address thereon.  Perhaps you will do me the honour to retain for yourself any of my books that may give you pleasure.  In the Pilgrim’s Progress you will find some excellent recipes for Turkish coffee, Italian and Spanish dishes, and washing wounds.  The landlady’s daughter speaks Italian, and she would, I know, like to have Freda; the poor dog will miss me.  I have read of old Indian warriors taking their horses and dogs