Philip, for his part, said nothing. The decision of the seconds was final. Nor could he, whatever his wrongs, bring himself to go on firing at a man who was determined not to return his fire. Even then—so desperately contradictory is human nature—even then, without in anywise detracting from his own wretchedness and desperation, he was conscious of a weakness towards his old friend, a strange sense of relenting. At that moment he rejoiced that he had not the other’s death upon his hands.
“Well, since there is to be no more shooting,” said Fordham, at length, speaking in an easy, careless tone, “I may as well convince you that I was not bragging just now. Look at that knot in the blazed tree—there about four feet from the ground.”
He raised his pistol, and with scarcely a moment’s aim fired. The knot, a flat one, and about the size of a crown piece, was seen to splinter. The ball had made a plumb centre.
“Look again,” he went on, and again his pistol cracked. The knot split into a gaping gash and the splinters flew from it. He had planted his second bullet right upon the first one. Ejaculations broke from the spectators in their respective tongues.
“Well, Mr Fordham,” said the Major, “I think I may say, on behalf of my principal and myself, that we appreciate your courtesy to the full. M. de Verrieux, if you will do me the pleasure of meeting me this evening or to-morrow morning at St. Jean-Pied-de-Port as arranged, we will draw up the usual procés-verbal. Gentlemen, I have the honour to salute you, and to wish you good morning.”
Then, amid much elaborate hat-lifting, Major Fox and his principal walked away, while M. de Verrieux and the doctor lit their cigars and proceeded to put away the pistols. Suddenly a cry escaped the medico. It was echoed by the other. For Fordham was lying on the ground as pale as death. He was in a dead faint.
“And he said he wasn’t hit?” ejaculated the doctor. “I could have sworn I saw him wince. Yes! look there,” pointing to a hole in the fallen man’s trousers just above the left knee. “There it is. He held his hand over it all the time, do you see, very cleverly too. Too proud to give way before the young one. Well, well; he is a man. But it is wonderful—wonderful.”
All this while the speaker had been ripping up the leg of the prostrate man’s trousers.
“Here it is,” he went on triumphantly. “Ah, ça! But there will be no probing required. The ball has gone clean through.”
“Is the wound a dangerous one?” said the other. “It doesn’t seem to bleed much.”