“Let’s open the window first,” I suggested.  So we walked around the house and pried the solid shutter from its fastenings.  Then, gathering our courage, we went in again at the door.  In the dim light let into the farther room we saw a four-poster bed, old and cheap, with ragged curtains.  It was this that I had struck in my groping.

“The chief killed Cram there,” said Nick, in an awed voice, “in that bed.  What do you want to do here, Davy?”

“Wait,” I said, though I had as little mind to wait as ever in my life.  “Stand here by the window.”

We waited there.  The mist rose.  The sun peeped over the bank of dense green forest and spread rainbow colors on the still waters of the river.  Now and again a fish broke, or a great bird swooped down and slit the surface.  A far-off snatch of melody came to our ears,—­the slaves were going to work.  Nothing more.  And little by little grave misgivings gnawed at my soul of the wisdom of coming to this place.  Doubtless there were many other spots.

“Davy,” said Nick, at last, “I’m sorry I took that money.  What are we here for?”

“Hush!” I whispered; “do you hear anything?”

I did, and distinctly.  For I had been brought up in the forest.

“I hear voices,” he said presently, “coming this way.”

They were very clear to me by then.  Emerging from the forest path were five gentlemen.  The leader, more plainly dressed than the others, carried a leather case.  Behind him was the stout figure of Mr. Darnley, his face solemn; and last of all came Mr. Harry Riddle, very pale, but cutting the tops of the long grass with a switch.  Nick seized my arm.

“They are going to fight,” said he.

“Yes,” I replied, “and we are here to stop them, now.”

“No, not now,” he said, holding me still.  “We’ll have some more fun out of this yet.”

“Fun?” I echoed.

“Yes,” he said excitedly.  “Leave it to me.  I shan’t let them fight.”

And that instant we changed generals, David giving place to Nicholas.

Mr. Riddle retired with one gentleman to a side of the little patch of grass, and Mr. Darnley and a friend to another.  The fifth gentleman took a position halfway between the two, and, opening the leather case, laid it down on the grass, where its contents glistened.

“That’s Dr. Ball,” whispered Nick.  And his voice shook with excitement.

Mr. Riddle stripped off his coat and waistcoat and ruffles, and his sword-belt, and Mr. Darnley did the same.  Both gentlemen drew their swords and advanced to the middle of the lawn, and stood opposite one another, with flowing linen shirts open at the throat, and bared heads.  They were indeed a contrast.  Mr. Riddle, tall and white, with closed lips, glared at his opponent.  Mr. Darnley cut a merrier figure,—­rotund and flushed, with fat calves and short arms, though his countenance was sober enough.  All at once the two were circling their swords in the air, and then Nick had flung open the shutter and leaped through the window, and was running and shouting towards the astonished gentlemen, all of whom wheeled to face him.  He jingled as he ran.