“All right!” said Simon, phlegmatically. “One, two, three!”
As he uttered the word “three,” Esmeralda rode down through the bush. She pulled up almost within reach of the combatants, sat for an instant as if turned to stone, then flung herself from her horse and upon Trafford’s breast.
At that same moment Simon dropped the fatal handkerchief, and Varley fired.
A cry, a sob, went up to Heaven, and Trafford, who had not fired at all, was in time to catch Esmeralda’s sinking form to his heart.
[CHAPTER XLI.]
As Esmeralda sunk unconscious against Trafford’s breast, a sharp cry of horror rose from Varley, and was echoed by Norman, who came up a moment or two afterward. The revolver dropped from Varley’s hand, and he stood staring before him with ashen face and quivering lips. She had come between him and Trafford at the very moment Varley pulled the trigger; there had not even been time for him to divert his aim.
For an instant or two not one of them was capable of realizing what had happened; then, with cry of anguish, Trafford pressed Esmeralda to him, and looked down into her face, which was as composed as if by the hand of death. He saw a line of red trickling over the bosom of her dress, and a groan burst from his lips.
“My God, you’ve killed her!” he exclaimed, hoarsely.
Varley came up with uncertain steps, but Trafford half turned away with his precious burden, as if to prevent Varley from touching her. Norman stood shaking and trembling, and it was Simon who, being the least interested, retained his presence of mind, said: