“Speak not so rashly, my son!  It cannot, it must not, it shall not take place!”

“I have no power to prevent it, father.”

“You are a free agent.”

“Not to do a deed of dishonour,—­or, rather, I am not free to suffer dishonour.”

“There is no honour in wantonly risking or taking life, Harvey.”

“I insulted a friend, in the grossest manner.”

“That was dishonourable.  But why did you insult him?”

“I was flushed with wine.”

The old man shook his head, sadly.

“I know it was wrong, father.  But it can’t be helped now.  Well, as I said; I insulted him, and he has demanded satisfaction.  Can I do less than give it to him?”

“If you insulted him, you can apologize.  And, from what I know of James Everett, he will at once forgive.”

“I cannot do that now, father.  He threw a bottle of wine at my head, and then precipitately challenged me.  I owe at least something to myself.”

“And something, I should think, to your mother, if not to me,” replied the old man, bitterly.  “How, think you she will receive the news of your death, if the combat should terminate fatally for you?  Or, how, if your hands should become stained with the blood of your friend?”

“Talk not thus, father!  Talk not thus!” ejaculated the young man, rising up quickly, and beginning to pace the floor of his chamber with hurried steps.  “Is not my situation dreadful enough viewed in any light?  Then why seek to agonize my heart with what I would gladly forget?  I am already racked with tortures that can scarcely be endured—­why seek to run my cup of misery over?”

“I seek but to save you, my child,” the father replied, in a voice that suddenly became low and tremulous.

“It is a vain effort.  There is but one course for me, and that is to go on, and meet whatever consequences ensue.  The result may not be so bad as feared.”

“Harvey!” old Mr. Lane said, in a voice that had somewhat regained its steadiness of tone.  “This meeting must not take place.  If you persist in going out tomorrow morning, I must take measures to prevent it.”

“And thus dishonour your son.”

“All dishonour that will appertain to you, Harvey, appertains to you now.  You insulted your friend.  Neither your death nor his can atone for that offence.  If reparation be truly made, it will come in some other form.”

“It is vain to urge that matter with me,” was the reply to this.  “I must give James Everett the satisfaction he requires to-morrow morning.  And now, father, if I should fall, which heaven forbid for others’ sakes more than my own,” and the young man’s voice quivered, “break the matter to my mother as gently as possible—­tell her, that my last thoughts were of her, and my last prayer that she might be given strength from above to bear this heavy affliction.”