"Aye!" sneered Gaston, still writhing with pain, "at my service now, when you hope that my broken wrist will ensure your impunity."
"Nay, sir, but at your service across the width of this table," responded Eglinton coldly, "a pair of pistols, one unloaded. . . . And we'll both use the left hand."
An exclamation of protest broke from Mortémar's lips.
"Impossible! . . ."
"Why so, Monsieur le Comte?"
"'Twere murder, milor!"
"Does M. le Comte de Stainville protest?" queried the other calmly.
"No! damn you! . . . Where are the pistols?"
"Yours, M. le Comte, an you will; surely you have not ridden all the way from Versailles without a pair in your holster."
"Well guessed, milor," quoth Gaston lightly. "Mortémar, I pray you, in the pocket of my coat . . . a pair of pistols."