The evening grew more dull every moment, and a melancholy wind sounded through the deserted fields, like a distant giant whistling for his house dog. The sadness of the scene imparted a sombre tinge to the feelings of Mr Winkle. He shivered as they passed the angle of the trench - it looked like a colossal grave.

The officer turned suddenly from the path, and after climbing a fence, and going through a hedge, entered a secluded field.

Two gentlemen were waiting in it; one was a little, fat man, with black hair; and the other - a portly personage in a coat who was sitting with perfect equanimity on a camp-stool.

'The other party, and a surgeon, I suppose,' said Mr Snodgrass; 'take a drop of brandy.' Mr Winkle seized the bottle which his friend proffered, and took a long pull at the exhilarating liquid.

'My friend, Sir, Mr Snodgrass,' said Mr Winkle, as the officer approached. Doctor Slammer's friend bowed, and produced a case similar to that which Mr Snodgrass carried.

'We have nothing further to say, Sir, I think,' he coldly remarked, as he opened the case; 'an apology has been resolutely declined.'