Some of the back county aristocrats, on the other hand—­men who lived by themselves, who took their cue from Alexander Hamilton, Lee, and Webb, and believed in the code as the only means of arbitrating a difficulty of any kind between gentlemen—­stoutly defended the Lord of Moorlands.

“Rutter did perfectly right to chuck the young whelp out of doors.  Outrageous, sir—­never is done—­nothing less than murder.  Ought to be prosecuted for challenging a man under his own roof—­and at night too.  No toss-up for position, no seconds except a parcel of boys.  Vulgar, sir—­infernally vulgar, sir.  I haven’t the honor of Colonel Rutter’s acquaintance—­but if I had I’d tell him so—­served the brat right—­ damn him!”

Richard Horn was equally emphatic, but in a far different way.  Indeed he could hardly restrain himself when discussing it.

“I can think of nothing my young boy Oliver would or could do when he grows up,” he exclaimed fiercely—­his eyes flashing, “which would shut him out of his home and his dear mother’s care.  The duel is a relic of barbarism and should be no longer tolerated; it is mob law, really, and indefensible, with two persons defying the statutes instead of a thousand.  But Rutter is the last man in the world to take the stand he has, and I sincerely regret his action.  There are many bitter days ahead of him.”

Nor were the present conditions, aspirations, and future welfare of the two combatants, and of the lovely girl over whom they had quarrelled, neglected by the gossipers.  No day passed without an extended discussion of their affairs.  Bearers of fresh news were eagerly welcomed both to toddy and tea tables.

Old Morris Murdoch, who knew Willits’s father intimately, being a strong Clay man himself, arrived at one of these functions with the astounding information that Willits had called on Miss Seymour, wearing his hat in her presence to conceal his much-beplastered head.  That he had then and there not only made her a most humble apology for his ill-tempered outbreak, which he explained was due entirely to a combination of egg-and-brandy, with a dash of apple-toddy thrown in, but had declared upon his honor as a gentleman that he would never again touch the flowing bowl.  Whereupon—­(and this excited still greater astonishment) —­the delighted young lady had not only expressed her sympathy for his misfortunes, but had blamed herself for what had occurred!

Tom Tilghman, a famous cross-country rider, who had ridden in post haste from his country seat near Moorlands to tell the tale—­as could be seen from his boots, which were still covered with mud—­boldly asserted of his own knowledge that the wounded man, instead of seeking his native shore, as was generally believed, would betake himself to the Red Sulphur Springs (where Kate always spent the summer)—­accompanied by three saddle horses, two servants, some extra bandages, and his devoted sister, there to regain what was left