208
HENRI D’EGVILLE.
that I had been in companionship with such a cold- blooded assassin. “Some villains have a conscience,” continued the Captain, “but this man seems to have none; he is still on the watch for fresh victims, and seems never so happy as in the prospect of twelve paces and an opponent. I have heard of an assassin who declared that he could never look at a clock at the time the hanis pointed to the hour when his black deed was perpetrated, but he beheld the face of him whom he murdered, glaring at him from the dial. Yet, strange to say, D'Egville, having wantonly destroyed many, with a fiendish delight seeks to add to his guilt.”—Stewart again paused, then added, in a voice tremulous with emotion —“while I having, in my youth, slain one man in a duel, the remembrance is permitted to haunt me through life!” The remark was of a nature and made in a manner to preclude reply: after a pause of some minutes, the Captain resumed,— “And yet, according to what is called ‘ honour,’ [ act- ed rightly. I sought not the quarrel. My fellow- student, Cameron, in a theatre, brutally insulted a young lady. I interfered, and he struck me. I called on him for ‘satisfaction;} we met, and, although I never before exploded an ounce of powder, at the first shot Cameron staggered, fell, and, after a few struggles of agony, ceased for ever to breathe! And yet the re- collection of this event embitters my days. Do I sleep amid night visions, I behold the prostrate form of Ca- meron writhing in death-struggles, and hear the mor- tal rattling in his throat! Am I sick, low-spirited, or lonely, I see him with his smoking pistol dropping from his hand, staggering and falling! Often, on a serene night, when the dark bosom of the ocean glittered with the moon's rays, have I beheld his shrouded cadave- rous form rise from the deep, and glide across the ho- rizon;—plainly, amid the howlings of the storm, have I heard the short cry of agony, between a yell and a groan, that he uttered when this fatal arm slew him!”
We walked in silence some distance further, each busy with his own reflections, until I was preparing to take leave of my companion, when he invited me to go on board his ship, the “Planter.” As the rain had fallen heavily that day, it brought a great cloud of musquetoes, whose stings I could avoid by sleeping at sea, and my new friend had so won upon me, that I frankly accepted his offer. His gig was waiting for him, in which we embarked, and in a few minutes we ascended the accommodation-ladder. It was late, or, rather early, that is to say, about two o'clock, and we retired to rest, the Captain in his state-room, and I in a cot in the cabin. I slept soundly, and the next morning was awoke by the steward, who acquainted me that breakfast was ready. A head-ache immedi- ately informed me how I had spent the preceding night, to remedy which the Captain advised me to spend the day on board, where the air is much cooler than in town. I had little business on shore, and that little I felt no inclination to go about, so I followed his prescription.
The cargo of the Planter being completed, Stewart had little to do, so that the morning was spent in con- versation, he being a great talker, and was, besides, what great talkers are not often—a deep thinker. It is true, he had some singular ideas, yet, if not always just, they were original; he was sometimes erroneous, but never dull or trivial.
“Who can that be coming on board, in a shore-boat?”’ asked the Captain, looking through his telescope. “As I live, it is that scoundrel Wilthorpe,— Captain Wil- thorpe of the Columbian service,’ as ke calls himself.”
“Who may he be?”
“One of the Duellist’s fraternity; reports says he killed a brother republican officer, by the ingenious plan of loading his pistol with a ball cut in quarters, and joined neatly together. I can guess the purpose of his visit.”
The boat came alongside, and a person inquired if the captain was on board; receiving an answer in the affirmative, he mounted the ladder. He was a young man of rather an effeminate appearance, to obviate which, he had cultivated immense whiskers, and a most warlike pair of mustachios. His head was re- markably erect, and his cheeks puffed out with affect- ed importance; his gait was “would-be military.” He wore a rather thread-bare surtout, covered with enor- mous frogs, and a high black stock;—there was a mix- ture of formality, overstrained politeness, and military non-chalance in his address, that reminded me of a private in the barracks, who affects to imitate his of- ficer.
“Have the honour of addressing Captain Stewart?” The Captain bowed assent.
“That, sir, being the case, sir, I ah—* have, ah,—to request the honour of ah—a private interview, sir—”
“I eannot conceive that you have any business with me, that this gentleman should not be a party to.”
“May I presume to ask, sir, if, ah—this gentleman has the honour, sir, ah—of being sir, your friend?”— This he said, eyeing me, and laying a strong emphasis on the last word.
“Whatever this gentleman has the honour of being, can be of little consequence to you, sir;—will you be pleased to open your business?”
At hearing this rebuff, Wilthorpe elevated his head to its utmost height, puffed out his cheeks, pulled up his false collar, and then formally took from his pocket- book a note, which he handed to the Captain, saying, “Will you, sir, be pleased to peruse this, ah,—note, air?”
Stewart took the note, and read these words, evident- ly written by a hand whose nerves were none of the steadiest—
“Le Porteur, M. le Captaine Vilthorpe mon ami, est
charge de l’affaire d’honeur entre le Captain Esteuarts
et moi. “HenrI D’EGvILLe.”
“Well, sir,’ said Stewart, after reading this brief
epistle, “what does Mr. Henri D’Egville mean by this
note?”
“He means, sir, to send me to you as his friend, sir, in order, sir,—ah—that I may explain to you, sir, that he conceives himself greatly insulted, sir, by your con- duct in regard toa pretended Geelic song, sir, last night, at the table of Mr. Invoice, sir; and not doubting, sir, that he has ihe honour of sending to a gentleman and a man of honour, sir—ah—he has requested me, sir, to say—ah—that he hopes to have the pleasure of meet- ing you—ah—to-morrow at gunfire, on the beach be- hind Iguanna rock, sir—ah.”
“Mr. D'Egville shall not have the pleasure of meet- ing me, as he calls it: by which he means the pleasure of adding me to the line of the score he has already murdered.”;
“Surely, sir, that is not the answer you would, sir, send to a gentleman—ah—whom you have insulted, sir, ah—am [ to understand that you refuse to meet my friend?”
, “I speak, and you understand English; do you wish me to send an answer in Gelic or Greek to Mr. D’Eg- ville?”
“Are you aware, sir, that my friend Mr. D’Egville, sir, will conceive your refusing to meet him to be the effects of cowardice?”
“It matters little to me what the conceptions of your friend may be on the subject,” said Stewart, with the admirable coolness he had preserved through the interview.
« And, sir, are you aware, sir —ah—that my friend,
- The Captain introduced a kind of drawling inter-
jection between every five words.
