heard it, and in that superstitious age believed it to be some mysterious herald of death.
It suspended even Major Packard's voice a minute. He recovered himself, however, and once more his soldier-like tones ran in the keen air:—
"One——"
There was a great rushing, and a pounding of the hard ground, and a scarlet Amazon galloped in and drew up in the middle, right between the leveled pistols.
Every eye had been so bent on the combatants, that Kate Peyton and her horse seemed to have sprung out of the very earth. And there she sat pale as ashes, on the steaming piebald, and glanced from pistol to pistol.
The duelists stared in utter amazement, and instinctively lowered their weapons; for she had put herself right in their line of fire, with a recklessness that contrasted nobly with her fear for others. In short this apparition literally petrified them all, seconds as well as combatants.
And, while they stood open-mouthed yet dumb, in came the Scamp, and, with a brisk assumption of delegated authority, took Griffith's weapon out of his now unresisting hand; then marched to Neville. He instantly saluted Catherine, and then handed his pistol to her seeming agent, with a high-bred and inimitable air of utter nonchalance.
Kate, seeing them to her surprise so easily disarmed, raised her hands and her lovely eyes to Heaven, and in a feeble voice, thanked God and St. Nescioquis.
But very soon that faint voice quavered away to nothing, and her fair head was seen to droop, and her eyes to close; then her body sank slowly forward like a broken lily; and in another moment she lay fainting on the snow beside her steaming horse.
He never moved, he was so dead beat too.
O lame and impotent conclusion of a vigorous exploit! Masculine up to the crowning point, and then to go and spoil all with "woman's weakness."
"N.B.: This is rote sarcasticul," as Artemus, the delicious, says. Woman's weakness! If Solomon had planned and Samson executed, they could not have served her turn better than this most seasonable swooning did. For lo! at her fall the doughty combatants uttered a yell of dismay, and there was an indiscriminate rush towards the fair sufferer.
But the surgeon claimed his rights:—"This is my business," said he, authoritatively; "do not crowd on her, gentlemen; give her air."
Whereupon the duelists and seconds stood respectfully aloof in a mixed group, and watched with eager interest and pity.
The surgeon made a hole in the snow and laid his fair patient's head low. "Don't be alarmed," said he: "she has swooned; that is all."
It was all mighty fine to say don't be alarmed. But her face was ashy, and her lips the color of lead: and she was so like death, they could not help being terribly alarmed: and now, for the first time, the duelists felt culprits; and, as for fighting, every idea of such a thing went out of their heads: the rivals now were but rival nurses: and never did a lot of women make more fuss over a child, than all these bloodthirsty men did over this Amazon manquée. They produced their legendary lore: one's grandmother had told him burnt feathers were the thing; another, from an equally venerable source, had gathered that those pink palms must be profanely slapped by the horny hand of a man; for at no less a price could resuscitation be obtained. The surgeon scorning all their legends, Griffith and Neville made hasty rushes with brandy and usquebaugh; but whether to be taken internally or externally, they did not say, nor indeed know; but only thrust their flasks wildly on the doctor: and he declined them loftily. He melted snow in his hand, and dashed it hard in her face; and put salts close to her pretty little nostrils. And this he repeated many times, without effect.
But at last her lips began to turn from lead color to white, and then from white to pink, and her heavenly eyes to open again, and her mouth to murmur things pitiably small and not bearing on the matter in hand.
Her cheek was still colorless, when her consciousness came back, and she found she was lying on the ground with ever so many gentlemen looking at her.
At that, Modesty alarmed sent the blood at once rushing to her pale cheek.
A lovely lily seemed turning to a lovely rose before their eyes.
The next thing was, she hid that blushing face in her hands, and began to whimper.
The surgeon encouraged her: "Nay, we are all friends," he whispered, paternally.
She half parted her fingers and peered through them at Neville and Gaunt. Then she remembered all, and began to cry hysterically.
New dismay of sanguinary unprofessionals!
"Now, gentlemen, if you will lend me your flasks," said Mr. Islip, mighty calmly.
Griffith and Neville were instantly at his side, each with a flask.
The surgeon administered snow and brandy. Kate sipped these, and gulped down her sobs, and at last cried composedly.
But, when it came to sipping brandied snow and crying comfortably, Major Rickards's anxiety gave place to curiosity. Without taking his eye off her he beckoned, Mr. Hammersley apart, and whispered, "Who the deuce is it?"
"Don't you know?" whispered the other in return. "Why Mistress Peyton herself."
"What, the girl it is all about? Well, I never heard of such a thing: the causa belli to come galloping, and swooning, on the field of battle, and so stop the fighting! What will our ladies do next? By Heaven, she is worth fighting for though. Which is the happy man, I wonder? She doesn't look at either of them."
"Ah!" said the gentleman, "that is more than I know, more than Neville knows, more than anybody knows."
"Bet you a guinea she knows; and lets it out before she leaves the field," said Major Rickards.
Mr. Hammersley objected to an even bet; but said he would venture one to three she did not. It was an age of bets.
"Done!" said the Major.
By this time Kate had risen, with Mr. Islip's assistance, and was now standing with her hand upon the piebald's mane. She saw Rickards and Hammersley were whispering about her, and she felt very uneasy: so she told Mr. Islip timidly she desired to explain her conduct to all the gentlemen present, and avert false reports.
They were soon all about her, and she began with the most engaging embarrassment by making excuses for her weakness. She said she had ridden all the way from home, fasting; that was what had upset her. The gentlemen took the cue directly, and vowed eagerly and unanimously it was enough to upset a porter.
"But indeed," resumed Kate, blushing, "I did not come here to make a fuss, and be troublesome; but to prevent mischief, and clear up the strangest misunderstanding between two worthy gentlemen that are, both of them, my good friends."
She paused, and there was a chilling silence: everybody felt she was getting on ticklish ground now. She knew that well enough herself. But she had a good rudder to steer by, called Mother-wit.
Says she, with inimitable coolness, "Mr. Gaunt is an old friend of mine, and a little too sensitive where I am concerned. Some chatter-box has been and told him Mr. Neville should say I have changed horses with him; and on that the gossips put their own construction. Mr. Gaunt hears all this, and applies insulting terms to Mr. Neville.
