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“You must second me,” said Lackland quite cooly,
when we met at breakfast about two o'clock the same
day.

“Have you an affair on your hands?” I asked.

“Yes. I had a quarrel with some blackguard Pommeranian
or other, named Frosch, or Fischer, or some
such name, last night. He was impertinent, and I pulled
his nose very foolishly. But we are all liable to vagaries,
if we will be such children as to get drunk. He has just
sent me a message, and has anticipated my choice of
weapons.”

“Very polite of him.—Well, if Rabenmark's business
comes off the same day, we shall have a gay party.”

It was soon settled that the two duels should be despatched
at once, and a pleasant pic-nic party was arranged
to take place the next day at the ruins of the
Castle Plesse, about five miles from Göttingen.

Schloss Plesse stands on a hill of no great elevation,
and is completely embowered in beautiful woods which
surround it, and extend far along the valley below.
There are two round turrets, and large portions of the
walls of the old baronial castle remaining, and the spot
is one of the most sweetly sequestered and lovely places
I ever saw. Altogether, a more delightful place for our
pleasure party could hardly have been found.

We all breakfasted, according to agreement, at the inn
of a little village at the base of the hill.

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Just as we had concluded our repast, for which I confess
I had not much appetite, I happened to count the
number of the assembly, and a look of consternation
was visible on many countenances, on observing that
there was exactly thirteen.

Nowhere in the world is the prejudice against that unlucky
number at table so strong as in Germany. We
had not time, however, for further comments, as we
wished to finish the business before the lateness of the
hour exposed us to interruption.

We reached the place, and chose our ground in a
little open space, just below the mound on which the
castle stands.

We cast lots for priority, and it was decided that Lackland
and Mr. Fischer should open the proceedings, and
Klingspohr and Rabenmark finish the game.

Twelve paces were measured off, and I loaded the
pistols for Lackland, while Fischer's second did the same.
I threw down one of my gloves to mark my principal's
position, and Fischer was placed opposite to him by his
second. Lackland, who was near-sighted, although an
excellent shot, was quietly eyeing Fischer through the
glass that always hung round his neck.

“Poor old Fischer!” said he, “how awkwardly he
holds his pistol. I dare say he never saw one before.
Lucy for me that I am not obliged to try the schägers
with him. I hear he is a great swordsman.—Take care
of yourself, Morton, for that chap manages his weapon
in such an extraordinary manner, that he is as likely to
shoot you, or himself, or his second, as me.”

“Are you a shot, Lackland?” I asked, just before retiring.

“Pretty well,” said he; “but I shall try to let him off
as easily as possible.”

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“It was agreed that I should count five, and that
either might fire while I was counting. I began to
count, and I hardly numbered one, before Fischer discharged
his pistol in a great flurry. The ball flew wide
of the mark, and struck among the bushes, at some distance
on the left.

“He is determined not to lose his shot, at all events,”
said Lackland, very cooly adjusting his aim. “He is
right, for I shall not give him another chance.”

He fired as he spoke. The light smoke rolled away,
and Fischer was seen dancing about in the most vivacious
manner. He grimaced with pain, uttered the
most tremendous oaths, and after skipping round for the
space of a minute, like a maniac, concluded by throwing
himself on the ground.

“I succeeded exactly,” said Lackland, who was
standing as calm as a clock, with his glass at his eye.
“I once saw exactly such a case before. He is struck on
the elbow. I was afraid I should not hit so exactly
with those pistols. It is very painful for the moment—
but his arm will only be broken, and he will be well in a
few days.”

The report of the surgeon confirmed what Lackland
said. The wound was very slight, but very painful.
As soon as he had been properly attended to, the other
business came upon the carpet.

Klingspohr and Rabenmark now prepared for action.
They were to fight with sabres, but there was to be no
defensive armour; no caps nor neck-stocks, nor leather
breeches. Each stripped off all clothing but his shirt
and trowsers; each threw his cap upon the ground, and
seized his sabre. The turf where we were standing was
as smooth and level as a carpet, and the space was sufficient
for the purpose.

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Pappenheim and Affenstein were the seconds, and
the everlasting Dummberg, who was always sure to be
present on such occasions, was the umpire. There was,
however, but little need of any assistants. There were
but few formalities to be observed, for it was a deadly
quarrel, and to be terminated only by the total discomfiture
of one of the parties.

They advanced with their sabres to the spot, and
threw themselves on guard.

“Join your blades!” said Dummberg.

“Joined they are,” said the seconds.

“Los!”

The seconds retreated, and left them to themselves.
The combatants eyed each other a moment, like bloodhounds,
and then rushed furiously to the encounter.
Each struck, and in the very first outset, each received
desperate wounds. The seconds, however, remained in
their places, for the duel was to continue as long as the
combatants could stand. They paused an instant, eyeing
each other all the while—it was but an instant, and
again they flew upon each other. Rabenmark struck a
succession of furious blows, right and left—tierce and
quart—which Klingspohr found impossible to parry.
He sunk under their violence, wounded, and bleeding
desperately. He recovered himself however, in a few
moments, and fastened upon his enemy for the third and
last time. The conflict was deadly—all science was disregarded—
neither thought of parrying: both aimed rapid
and successful blows at each other, and both were already
covered with blood. At last they closed and struggled
with each other—both were of equal strength—
neither could force the other to the earth. Again they
separated, and again their meeting sabres clashed.

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Klingspohr now struck a blow at Rabenmark. It was
partially parried, but glanced along his shoulder. Before
he could recover his guard, Rabenmark, who was
always quick as a ripost, retorted with his furious “deep
tierce.” He struck him in the side—buried his sword's
point in the wound, and then, with a tremendous exertion
of strength, forced the weapon through his body,
till the hilt struck against his side. Klingspohr glared
wildly at him for an instant, and then fell stone dead.