"An you'll not take the weapon, M. le Comte," said Eglinton decisively, "I shoot."
There was a moment's silence, whilst Gaston's pride fought a grim battle with that awful instinct of self-preservation, that strange love of fleeting life to which poor mortals cling.
Men were not cowards in those days; life was cheap and oft sold for the gratification of petty vanity, yet who shall blame Gaston if, with certain death before him, he chose to forego his revenge?
"Give me that pistol, milor," he said dully, "de Mortémar, hand over that packet to Lord Eglinton."
He took the pistol from milor, and it was his own hand that trembled.
Silently de Mortémar obeyed. Milor took the packet of papers from him, then held them one by one to the flame of the candle: first the map, then the letter which bore Lydie's name writ so boldly across it. The black ash curled and fell from his hand on to the table, he gripped the paper until his seared fingers could hold it no longer.
Then he once more stood up, turning straight toward Gaston.
"I am ready, M. le Comte," he said simply.
Gaston raised his left arm and fired. There was a wild, an agonized shriek which came from a woman's throat, coupled with one of horror from de Mortémar's lips, as le petit Anglais stood for the space of a few seconds, quite still, firm and upright, with scarce a change upon his calm face, then sank forward without a groan.
"Madame, you are hurt!" shouted de Mortémar, who was almost dazed with surprise at the sight of a woman at this awful and supreme moment. He had just seen her, in the vivid flash when Gaston raised his arm and fired: she had rushed forward then, with the obvious intention of throwing herself before the murderous weapon, and now was making pathetic and vain efforts to raise her husband's inanimate body from the table against which he had fallen.