"What have you done?" she shrieked. "Where is Robert Gardner? 'Tis he I love, not you!"
Her eyes instinctively followed the glances of those about her.
"Oh!" she cried. "What is that? Robert! Oh, my God, and I have killed you!"
Her voice rang through the room in such an awful note of agony that every man's heart stood still. The colonel moved toward her, but her living lover was quicker. He caught her arm.
"Don't touch me!" she cried, shrinking away from him. "There is blood on your hand! His blood! You are a murderer!"
Her bitter words recalled him in a measure to himself.
"No, madam," he answered, smiling faintly, "'Tis my own."
He tore open his coat, showing the bosom of his shirt and waistcoat stained with blood. He had been hit, but the loose coat had deceived his opponent's aim, and the bullet had missed the heart. He had so controlled himself that no one suspected that he was wounded, and he had almost bled to death in the effort.
The woman, the roses all shuddered out of her cheeks, a ghastly picture, stared from the dead to the living with dazed, terrified glances.
"You," continued Mason, swaying as he spoke,—"you have trifled with two honest men, and from your cursed coquetry one lies dead yonder and one—and one—dies—at your feet!"