CHAPTER XXXVII
THE LETTER
De Mortémar had stowed the packet carefully away inside his coat, Gaston keenly watching his antagonist the while.
"Are you ready, milor?" he asked now with marked insolence of manner.
"At your service," replied the other quietly. "M. de Mortémar, will you give the word?"
The two men stood opposite to one another, a table not four feet wide between them. Each held a pistol in his left hand. Of these one was loaded, the other not. De Mortémar had cleared the table, pushing aside the decanter of wine, the tureen of soup, the glasses. The window was still open, and from that outside world which to these men here present seemed so far away, there came the sound of the old church belfry tolling the hour of eight, and still from afar that melancholy tune, the Norman ditty sung by young throats:
"C'est les Normands, qu'à dit ma mère,
"C'est les Normands qu'ont conquis l'Angleterre!"
"Fire!" said de Mortémar.
Two arms were raised. Eye was fixed to eye for one brief second, then lowered for the aim. There was a slight dull sound, then a terrible curse muttered below the breath, as the pistol which Gaston de Stainville had vainly tried to fire dropped from his hand.
Had his excitement blinded him when he chose his weapon, or was it just fate, ruthless, inscrutable, that had placed the loaded pistol in Lord Eglinton's hand?