Arms and the Woman

When Pembroke and I arrived at the Strasburg inn, on the north road,

neither the Prince nor Von Walden were in evidence. I stepped from our

carriage and gazed interestedly around me. The scene was a picturesque

one. The sun, but half risen, was of a rusty brass, and all east was

mottled with purple and salmon hues. The clearing, a quarter of a mile

away, where the Prince and I were to settle our dispute, was hidden

under a fine white snow; and the barren trees which encircled it stood

out blackly. Pembroke looked at his watch.

"They ought to be along soon; it's five after six. How do you feel?"

regarding me seriously.

"As nerveless as a rod of steel," I answered. "Let us go in and order

a small breakfast. I'm a bit cold."

"Better let it go at a cup of coffee," he suggested.

"It will be more consistent, that is true," I said. "Coffee and

pistols for two."

"I'm glad to see that you are bright," said Pembroke. "Hold out your

hand."

I did so.

"Good. So long as it doesn't tremble, I have confidence of the end."

We had scarcely finished our coffee when the Prince, followed by Von

Walden, entered.

"Pardon me," he said, "for having made you wait."

"Permit me," said I, rising, "to present my second; Mr. Pembroke, His

Highness Prince Ernst of Wortumborg."

The two looked into each other's eyes for a space, and the Prince

nodded approvingly.

"I have heard of Your Highness," said my cousin, with a peculiar smile.

"Some evil report, I presume?" laughed the Prince.

"Many of them," was the answer.

The Prince showed his teeth. "Count, these Americans are a positive

refreshment. I have yet to meet one who is not frankness itself. At

your pleasure!"

And the four of us left the inn and crossed the field. The first shot

fell to me. Pembroke's eyes beamed with exultant light. Von Walden's

face was without expression. As for the Prince, he still wore that

bantering smile. He was confident of the end. He knew that I was a

tyro, whereas he had faced death many times. I sighed. I knew that I

should not aim to take his life. I was absolutely without emotion;

there was not the slightest tremble in my hand as I accepted the

pistol. There is nothing like set purpose to still the tremors of a

man's nerves. I thought of Hillars, and for a moment my arm stiffened;

then I recalled Gretchen's last letter. . . . I fell to wondering

where the bullet would hit me. I prayed that his aim might be sure.