Colonel Berkeley examined the two pistols and laid them both in the centre of the table. Lord Dacre was at one end and I at the other, with eight feet of shining mahogany between us. On the hearth-rug with his back to the fire, stood the tall colonel, his handkerchief in his left hand, his cigar between two fingers of his right.
“When I drop the handkerchief,” said he, “you will pick up your pistols and you will fire at your own convenience. Are you ready?”
“Yes,” we cried.
His hand opened and the handkerchief fell. I bent swiftly forward and seized a pistol, but the table, as I have said, was eight feet across, and it was easier for this long-armed milord to reach the pistols than it was for me.
I had not yet drawn myself straight before he fired, and to this it was that I owe my life. His bullet would have blown out my brains had I been erect. As it was it whistled through my curls. At the same instant, just as I threw up my own pistol to fire, the door flew open and a pair of arms were thrown round me. It was the beautiful, flushed, frantic face of Lady Jane which looked up into mine.
“You sha'n't fire! Colonel Gerard, for my sake don't fire,” she cried. “It is a mistake, I tell you, a mistake, a mistake! He is the best and dearest of husbands. Never again shall I leave his side.” Her hands slid down my arm and closed upon my pistol.
“Jane, Jane,” cried Lord Rufton; “come with me. You should not be here. Come away.”
“It is all confoundedly irregular,” said Colonel Berkeley.
“Colonel Gerard, you won't fire, will you? My heart would break if he were hurt.”
“Hang it all, Jinny, give the fellow fair play,” cried Lord Dacre. “He stood my fire like a man, and I won't see him interfered with. Whatever happens I can't get worse than I deserve.”