As he reached the Park, a figure started out from the deep
shadow of St. Paul's Church, and stood directly before him.
It was with a singular emotion that he recognised Glendenning.
The two young men, who had thus strangely met,
were quite alone. They stood face to face in the dim starlight.

“This is a strange meeting, Captain Glendenning,” said
Frank.

Glendenning made no answer.

“If it is accident, stop my way no more.”

“It is not accident,” replied Glendenning, in a hollow and
tremulous voice. “I stole from White with a vague hope
of meeting you.”

“If not accidental,” said Frank, haughtily, “it is yet
stranger.”

“Frank,” said Glendenning, “I throw myself on your
generosity. By what humiliation, by what bitter taunts I
have been driven to this crisis I need not explain. I have
risked my character, and the mortal enmity of White, by
seeking you here, and therefore our meeting must be a secret.
Give me your hand, and hear what I have to say.”

[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]

“I will not take your hand,” replied Frank, sternly; “I
can have no secret with you.”

“Pity me and forgive me,” said Glendenning. “I am
only a victim.”

“I scorn you, Glendenning,” said Frank, “scorn and despise
you. The struggle I have undergone you can never
know. Your conduct has been as unworthy of a friend as
of a man. If I kill you, I shall not mourn you. If I fall, I
shall not forgive you. You might have spared me the pain
of speaking with you. Let me pass.”

“Lennox,” said Glendenning, “your anger I can bear,
because you are ignorant of my position and my feelings.”

“Spare me your confidence,” said Frank, coldly. “I
shall not sympathize with a weakness which has led you to
this new outrage. No friend, not beneath contempt, could
have advised you. You have mistaken the taunts of a coterie
for those of the world. Tell your advisers what I say,
and should you meet the fate you justly merit from a hand
that will not shrink from bestowing it, I will triumph in having
been your chastiser, and shall be ready to become theirs.
Let me pass, sir, or I shall think you a coward as well as
a—”

“Frank,” said Glendenning, “I make allowances for
your irritation. I am patient beneath your insults, for I deserve
them; at least, all except the last. Despicable, false,
and fickle I have been; may God forgive me! As for
avoiding this meeting, I wish to do so, because, if we meet,
one or both of us must fall. I did intend to waste my fire.
My life is without the least value to me. It would be grateful
to me to fall beneath your hand, but not only my honour
forbids, but the honour and life of at least one of my friends.
Suffering and thought have made me cool: be so yourself,
and hear me. I have weighed the matter in every way,
looked at it from every point. Without any hatred to each
other, we are involved in a dark destiny, from which only a
chance of escape is left us. I do not mean escape from
death; I mean escape from the horror of destroying each
other. My own happiness, Frank, I would resign rather
than proceed; but my honour! Besides, I am not my own
master. Were I to apologize to you—were I to refuse to
call you out—”

“Pray go on,” said Frank.

“Two or three officers of my regiment are resolved to do

[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]

so. The step which has sunk me so low in your estimation
does not add to your danger. We are both surrounded
by determined enemies, watching to consummate our ruin.
It is not my fault; it is necessity.”

“The tyrant's plea and the coward's excuse,” said Frank,
his high temper mounting at the narration of the danger in
which he stood.

“But that I loved you, Frank, loved you and yours—oh,
more than my tongue has power to say—let your reason
tell you I am incapable of the dishonour of seeking this interview.
But I remember the mad act by which I first
brought this on myself, and I hope I may partly expiate the
outrage by this shame.”

“If you have anything to say, say it,” said Frank.

“You must make a step to stop this affair.”

“I?”

“You! not for my sake; I ask nothing at your hands.
If I fall, I forgive you. Neither for your sake, but for your
mother's!”

“I make a move? and what move have you the coolness
to ask from me?”

“Write me the most guarded apology, the faintest regret
for the blow you gave me—say but one word, and I will
withdraw my message—even now—in spite of—”

“I? I bear the shame of your outrage? I apologize? I
humiliate myself before you, who first forced upon me a
quarrel, who, when punished less than he merited, now, to
conciliate heartless worldlings, throws reason, humanity, decency,
friendship, to the winds, and with a threatening note
and a bullying friend calls me out? Do you ask me to soil
my name, to bend my knee, to become a by-word and a
mark of scorn? No, sir. I do not regret the blow; I only
regret that, misled by my own feelings, I ever touched in
friendship the hand that, even in a moment of intoxication,
could offer an insult to a lady.”

“Go, then, Mr. Lennox,” said Glendenning. “It must be
confessed, if my crime has been great, my punishment is not
trifling. But your passion is too just to move in me other
feelings than pain. You will remember hereafter that I
sought your forgiveness in vain. Remember, also, to the
end of your life, that I have given you mine unasked. Tell
your mother I pray for her happiness. Good-evening to you.”

He turned and walked slowly away.

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