“Oh, Stella, Stella!” he muttered.
Aloud he read a portion of the miss
ive:
“My brother cannot fight; the injury
you did him precludes it. 1 will take
his place. At half-past 4 to-day, in the
clearing in the copse near the road—
you know the place. Pistols, if you
please.”
This picture arose before his mental
vision: A barroom—an insult to his
mother from the lips of a cad, half
drunk —a smashing blow from bis pow
erful, welltrainod, wiry arm.
And besides it there was another pic
ture. It was the portrait of a girl—a
neighboring planter’s daughter, the
sister of tho man he had struck. Tall,
slender, proud of the name of Yander
gaw and of the traditions of the fam
ily; all of the beauty, fire and spirit of
the typical southern girl were hers.
Why shouldn’t the man who loved her
have reason to think her a credit to tho
blue grass state?
Both pictures the colonel saw as he
tried to think of some way out of the
difficulty, the only one that had ever
balked him.
But time was flying—the colonel nev
er missed an appointment.
‘•Rulm'.”
“Yes, massa,'"almost instantly.
“Saddle Kemick.”
“Yes, massa;” and the old servant of
“fo” de wah, sah,” departed on his err
and.
In three minutes the horse was ready
and in another the colonel was on his
back. He hesitated.
“Rube.”
“Yes, massa.”
“My pistols—see that they are load
<><l.”
With the weapons in their leather
case before him bo rode away, and
Rube looked after him, wondering.
*******
“You are late, Robert.”
Her voice was low and calm. It was
a determined, never-faltering voice.
Site gave him no time for argument.
