“Ay, the mark itself does not so much signify,” said Mr. Marsden, “at least, not in actual duelling—the great thing is to be in the line.”
While he spoke, Lord Lilburne’s ball went a third time through the glove. His cold bright eye turned on Vaudemont, as he said, with a smile,—
“They tell me you shoot well with a fowling-piece, my dear Vaudemont—are you equally adroit with a pistol?”
“You may see, if you like; but you take aim, Lord Lilburne; that would be of no use in English duelling. Permit me.”
He walked to the glove, and tore from it one of the fingers, which he fastened separately to the tree, took the pistol from Dykeman as he walked past him, gained the spot whence to fire, turned at once round, without apparent aim, and the finger fell to the ground.
Lilburne stood aghast.
“That’s wonderful!” said Marsden; “quite wonderful. Where the devil did you get such a knack?—for it is only knack after all!”
“I lived for many years in a country where the practice was constant, where all that belongs to rifle-shooting was a necessary accomplishment—a country in which man had often to contend against the wild beast. In civilised states, man himself supplies the place of the wild beast—but we don’t hunt him!—Lord Lilburne” (and this was added with a smiling and disdainful whisper), “you must practise a little more.”
But, disregardful of the advice, from that day Lord Lilburne’s morning occupation was gone. He thought no longer of a duel with Vaudemont. As soon as the sportsman had left him, he bade Dykeman take up the pistols, and walked straight home into the library, where Robert Beaufort, who was no sportsman, generally spent his mornings.
He flung himself into an arm-chair, and said, as he stirred the fire with unusual vehemence,—