“By no means. I don’t consider it has begun.”
The seconds looked at each other, then at their principals. M. de Verrieux shrugged his shoulders.
“Enfin! Puisque Monsieur le désire,” he said.
“Take care he isn’t committing suicide,” said Fordham, with a queer flash in his eyes, and his brows met in that extraordinarily forbidding frown of his. But the remark was met by a somewhat sharp protest on the part of Major Fox, who declared that it was contrary to all precedent for one principal even to address the other under the circumstances, let alone utter what sounded uncommonly like a taunt. Fordham recognised frankly this infringement of etiquette, and apologised elaborately.
Again the two stood facing each other.
Never to his dying day would Philip forget that moment, and the still, sepulchral silence of the great forest, the faint earthy smell of moist vegetation, the sighing of the wind in the tree-tops, the mournful toll of the far-away dirge-bell. All the events of his later life swept through his mind in a flash—Alma Wyatt—the sweet, sunlit mountain slopes—the blue lake, and the shining glacier—then that other in her dark beauty—the dance and sparkle of the sea, and the expanse of yellow sand on the low-lying Welsh coast—then the frightful disclosure—his own horror—his father’s agony—the parting—Mrs Daventer’s death. All passed before him in vivid retrospect, as he stood there to receive the fire of the man whom up to a week ago he had reckoned his dearest friend.
The word was given. Again both pistols cracked together. Fordham only moving half his arm, had exactly repeated his former manoeuvre. He had fired straight up at the sky. At the same time he was seen ever so slightly to wince.
“Are you touched?” said the Frenchman, eagerly. “No? Ha—I thought—”
“It doesn’t seem much like it,” answered Fordham, slowly.
Then the seconds had their innings. On one point they were thoroughly agreed. The affair could be allowed to go no further. It had been conducted in a manner which was to the last degree creditable to both gentlemen concerned, pronounced M. de Verrieux animatedly, and he trusted they would both do each other the honour of shaking hands with each other. After which pleasing ceremony he, the speaker, would be delighted if they and the whole party would do him the honour of breakfasting with him, and doing justice to the best wines the cellar of the country inn could supply. This the Major emphatically seconded, though he knew too well there would be no handshaking or any such friendly parting between his two fellow-countrymen.