Now Lord Monteagle and his friend, who was Mr. Horace Pole, appeared.  Cadurcis advanced, and bowed; Lord Monteagle returned his bow, stiffly, but did not speak.  The seconds chose their ground, the champions disembarrassed themselves of their coats, and their swords crossed.  It was a brief affair.  After a few passes, Cadurcis received a slight wound in his arm, while his weapon pierced his antagonist in the breast.  Lord Monteagle dropped his sword and fell.

‘You had better fly, Lord Cadurcis,’ said Mr. Horace Pole.  ’This is a bad business, I fear; we have a surgeon at hand, and he can help us to the coach that is waiting close by.’

‘I thank you, sir, I never fly,’ said Lord Cadurcis; ’and I shall wait here until I see your principal safely deposited in his carriage; he will have no objection to my friend, Lord Scrope, assisting him, who, by his presence to-day, has only fulfilled one of the painful duties that society imposes upon us.’

The surgeon gave an unfavourable report of the wound, which he dressed on the field.  Lord Monteagle was then borne to his carriage, which was at hand, and Lord Scrope, the moment he had seen the equipage move slowly off, returned to his friend.

‘Well Cadurcis,’ he exclaimed in an anxious voice, ’I hope you have not killed him.  What will you do now?’

’I shall go home, and await the result, my dear Scrope.  I am sorry for you, for this may get you into trouble.  For myself, I care nothing.’

‘You bleed!’ said Lord Scrope.

’A scratch.  I almost wish our lots had been the reverse.  Come, Scrope, help me on with my coat.  Yesterday I lost my heart, last night I lost my money, and perhaps to-morrow I shall lose my arm.  It seems we are not in luck.

CHAPTER XVIII.

It has been well observed, that no spectacle is so ridiculous as the British public in one of its periodical fits of morality.  In general, elopements, divorces, and family quarrels pass with little notice.  We read the scandal, talk about it for a day, and forget it.  But, once in six or seven years, our virtue becomes outrageous.  We cannot suffer the laws of religion and decency to be violated.  We must make a stand against vice.  We must teach libertines that the English people appreciate the importance of domestic ties.  Accordingly, some unfortunate man, in no respect more depraved than hundreds whose offences have been treated with lenity, is singled out as an expiatory sacrifice.  If he has children, they are to be taken from him.  If he has a profession, he is to be driven from it.  He is cut by the higher orders, and hissed by the lower.  He is, in truth, a sort of whipping boy, by whose vicarious agonies all the other transgressors of the same class are, it is supposed, sufficiently chastised.  We reflect very complacently on our own severity, and compare, with great pride, the high standard of morals established in England, with the Parisian laxity.  At length, our anger is satiated, our victim is ruined and heart-broken, and our virtue goes quietly to sleep for seven years more.