“Corporal of the Guard, I have your prisoner!”
“Let me go, damn you!” roared Dumont furiously, making another desperate effort,—“if you don’t do it, I will,” he added under his breath. “Give me the revolver!”
“No, no, Harry,” was the whispered reply, and “Surrender, curse you!” the shouted answer. “You’ll hurt yourself,” he pleaded.
“I don’t care,” muttered Dumont. “Let me have it.”
His hands slipped down from Thorne’s shoulders and grasped the butt of the revolver. The two grappled for it fiercely, but the struggle was beginning to tell on Thorne, who was not yet in full possession of his physical vitality. His long illness had sapped his strength.
“Don’t, don’t, for God’s sake!” he whispered, and then shouted desperately, “Here’s your man, Corporal, what’s the matter with you?”
“Give me that gun,” said Dumont, and in spite of himself his voice rose again. There was nothing suspicious in the words, it was what he might have said had the battle been a real one; as he spoke by a more violent effort he wrenched the weapon from the holster and away from Thorne’s detaining hand. The latter sought desperately to repossess himself of it.
“Look out, Harry!” he implored
“Look out, Harry! You’ll hurt yourself,” he implored, but the next moment by a superhuman effort Dumont threw him back. As Thorne staggered, Dumont turned the pistol on himself. Recovering himself with incredible swiftness, Thorne leaped at his brother, and the two figures went down together with a crash in the midst of which rang out the sharp report of the heavy service weapon. Instead of shooting himself harmlessly in the side, in the struggle Dumont had unfortunately shot himself through the lung.