The evening grew more dull every moment, and a sad wind blew through the deserted fields, like a distant giant whistling to call his dog. The sadness of the scene imparted a sombre feeling to Mr Winkle. He shivered as they passed 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 other gentlemen were waiting there. One was a little fat man, with black hair; and the other - a portly person in a coat who was sitting on a camp-stool looking completely relaxed.

'The man you are going to fight, and a surgeon, I suppose,' said Mr Snodgrass; 'take a drop of brandy.' Mr Winkle seized the bottle which his friend offered, and took a long pull at the 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.'