He threw sand upon a sheet of gilt-edged paper, folded and superscribed it; then took from his breast a thicker document.  “The Solebay, man-of-war, lying off Jamestown, sails at sunrise.  The captain—­Captain Meade—­is my friend.  Who knows the fortunes of war?  If by chance I should fall to-night, take a boat at the landing, hasten upstream, and hail the Solebay.  When you are aboard give Meade—­who has reason to oblige me—­this letter.  He will carry you down the coast to Charleston, where, if you change your name and lurk for a while, you may pass for a buccaneer and be safe enough.  For this other paper”—­He hesitated, then spoke on with some constraint:  “It is your release from servitude in Virginia,—­in effect, your pardon.  I have interest both here and at home—­it hath been many years since Preston—­the paper was not hard to obtain.  I had meant to give it to you before we parted to-night.  I regret that, should you prove the better swordsman, it may be of little service to you.”

He laid the papers on the table, and began to divest himself of his coat, waistcoat, and long, curled periwig.  MacLean took up the pardon and held it to a candle.  It caught, but before the flame could reach the writing Haward had dashed down the other’s hand and beaten out the blaze. “’Slife, Angus, what would you do!” he cried, and, taken unawares, there was angry concern in his voice.  “Why, man, ’t is liberty!”

“I may not accept it,” said MacLean, with dry lips.  “That letter, also, is useless to me.  I would you were all villain.”

“Your scruple is fantastic!” retorted the other, and as he spoke he put both papers upon the escritoire, weighting them with the sandbox.  “You shall take them hence when our score is settled,—­ay, and use them as best you may!  Now, sir, are you ready?”

“You are weak from illness,” said MacLean hoarsely, “Let the quarrel rest until you have recovered strength.”

Haward laughed.  “I was not strong yesterday,” he said.  “But Mr. Everard is pinked in the side, and Mr. Travis, who would fight with pistols, hath a ball through his shoulder.”

The storekeeper started.  “I have heard of those gentlemen!  You fought them both upon the day when you left your sickroom?”

“Assuredly,” answered the other, with a slight lift of his brows.  “Will you be so good as to move the table to one side?  So.  On guard, sir!”

The man who had been ill unto death and the man who for many years had worn no sword acquitted themselves well.  Had the room been a field behind Montagu House, had there been present seconds, a physician, gaping chairmen, the interest would have been breathless.  As it was, the lady upon the wall smiled on, with her eyes forever upon the blossoms in her hand, and the river without, when it could be heard through the clashing of steel, made but a listless and dreamy sound.  Each swordsman knew that he had provoked a friend to whom his debt was great, but each, according to his godless creed, must strive as though that friend were his dearest foe.  The Englishman fought coolly, the Gael with fervor.  The latter had an unguarded moment.  Haward’s blade leaped to meet it, and on the other’s shirt appeared a bright red stain.