Then came Judge Terry with an unprovoked attack on members of the Anti-Lecompton party.  “They are the personal chattels of one man,” he said, “a single individual whom they are ashamed of.  They belong heart, soul, body and breeches to David C. Broderick.  Afraid to acknowledge their master they call themselves Douglas Democrats....  Perhaps they sail under the flag of Douglas, but it is the Black Douglas, whose name is Frederick, not Stephen.”

Frederick Douglas was a negro.  Therefore, Terry’s accusation was the acme of insult and contumely, which a Southerner’s imagination could devise.  Broderick read it in a morning paper as he breakfasted with friends in the International Hotel and, wounded by the thrust from one he deemed a friend, spoke bitterly: 

“I have always said that Terry was the only honest man on the bench of a miserably corrupt court.  But I take it all back.  He is just as bad as the others.”

By some evil chance, D.W.  Perley overheard that statement—­which proceeded out of Broderick’s momentary irritation.  Perley was a man of small renown, a lawyer, politician and a whilom friend of Terry.  Instantly he seized the opportunity to force a quarrel, and, in Terry’s name, demanded “satisfaction.”  Broderick was half amused at first, but in the end retorted angrily.  They parted in a violent altercation.

“Dave,” said Alice, as he dined with them that evening, “your’re not going to fight this man?”

“I shall ignore the fellow.  I’ve written him that I fight with no one but my equal.  He can make what he likes out of that.  I’ve been in a duel or two.  Nobody will question my courage.”

* * * * *

Po Lun proved a model servitor, a careful nurse.  Alice often left in his efficient hands her household tasks.  Sometimes she and Benito took an outing of a Saturday afternoon, for there was now a pleasant drive down the Peninsula along the new San Bruno turnpike to San Mateo.

The Windhams were returning from such a drive in the pleasant afternoon sunshine when a tumult of newsboys hawking an extra edition arrested them.

“Big duel ...  Broderick and Terry!” shrieked the “newsies.”  Benito stopped the horse and bought a paper, perusing the headlines feverishly.  Alice leaned over his shoulder, her face white.  Presently Benito faced her.  “Terry’s forced a fight on Dave,” he said huskily.  “They’re to meet on Monday at the upper end of Lake Merced.”

CHAPTER LIV

THE “FIELD OF HONOR”

Chief of Police Burke lingered late in his office that Saturday afternoon.  Twilight had passed into dusk, through which the street lamps were beginning to glimmer, leaping here and there into sudden luminance as the lamp-lighter made his rounds.  Deep in the complexities of police reports Burke had scarcely noted the entrance of a police clerk who lighted the swinging lamp overhead.  And he was only dimly aware of faint knocking at his door.  It came a second, a third time before he roused himself.  “Come in,” he called, none too graciously.