They drew.

Wharton, whose cool good humoured courage and skill in fence were the envy of all the swordsmen of that age, closed with his quarrelsome neighbour, disarmed him, and gave him his life.
A more tragical duel had just taken place at Westminster.

Conway Seymour, the eldest son of Sir Edward Seymour, had lately come of age.
He was in possession of an independent fortune of seven thousand pounds a year, which he lavished in costly fopperies.

The town had nicknamed him Beau Seymour.

He was displaying his curls and his embroidery in Saint James's Park on a midsummer evening, after indulging too freely in wine, when a young officer of the Blues named Kirke, who was as tipsy as himself, passed near him.