It was a damp, drizzly morning, just at break of day, when Harvey Lane, accompanied by his friend, and a young physician, entered a close carriage, and started for the duelling-ground, which had been selected, some four miles from the city.  Two neat mahogany cases were taken along, one containing a pair of duelling pistols, and the other a set of surgical instruments.  As these were handed in, the eye of Lane rested upon them for a moment.  They conjured up in his mind no very pleasant thoughts.  He was very pale, and silent.  Nor did his companions seem in much better condition, or much better spirits.  A rapid drive of nearly three quarters of an hour brought them upon the ground.  The other party had not yet arrived, but came up in a few minutes afterwards.  Then commenced the formal preparations.  The ground was measured off—­ten paces.  The seconds prepared the deadly weapons which were to heal the honour that had been so dreadfully wounded, and arranged all the minor provisions of the duel.

During all this time, neither of the young men looked towards each other, but each paced rapidly over a little space of ground, backwards and forwards, with agitated steps—­though evidently with an effort to seem composed.

“Ready,” said Lane’s second, at length, close to his ear.

The young man started, and his cheek blanched to a pale hue.  He had been thinking of his father and mother.  With almost the vividness of reality had he seen them before him, and heard their earnest; tearful pleadings with him to forbear for their sakes, if not for his own.  But he took the deadly weapon in his hand mechanically, and moved to the position that had been assigned him.  The arrangement was, that the seconds should give the words—­one—­two—­three—­in slow succession, and that the parties should fire as soon after “three” was uttered, as they chose.

Their positions taken, the young men’s eyes met for the first time—­and for the first time they looked again upon each other’s faces.  The word one had been given, at which each raised his pistol,—­two was uttered—­and then another individual was suddenly, and unexpectedly added to the party, who threw himself in front of Harvey Lane, in range of both the deadly weapons.  Turning, then, towards Everett, he said, lifting his hat, and letting his thin grey hairs fall about his forehead—­

“We cannot spare our son, yet, James!  We are growing old, and he is our only child.  If he were taken thus away from us, we should not be able to bear it.  For our sakes, then, James, if he has injured you, forgive him.”

Already had the face of his old and long-tried friend, as he met its familiar expression, softened in some degree the feelings of Everett, and modified the angry vindictiveness which he still continued to cherish.  The apparition of the father, and his unexpected appeal, completely conquered him, and he threw, with a sudden effort, his pistol away some twenty yards.