“Three!” wrenched itself from his tightening throat in a gasp. He hid his face in his arms. “What have I done? What have I done?” he groaned. It seemed an eternity; why did they not shoot and have it over with? He dropped his arm and looked; they had had barely time to come round face to face.
Aloyse fired first by an instant; then Grafton. Grafton stood motionless. Aloyse gave an exclamation of pain; his pistol dropped to the ground and the blood spurted over his shattered hand until it was red and raining red from every finger.
Grafton, his feet together, began slowly to fall forward, his eyes closing. Burroughs cried out and rushed to him and caught him.
“Where is it?” he whispered.
“A mere trifle—a scratch on the arm,” whispered Grafton. “Sh! Be careful!” And he closed his eyes and lay motionless.
“Quick, Dr. Berners!” exclaimed Burroughs, starting up wildly from beside his friend. “I think he’s been killed.”
Berners was already there, was tearing open Grafton’s coat, waistcoat, shirt, and undershirt. Dr. Kirschner, his face beaming and his hands rubbing, bustled up. “His Royal Highness has been graciously pleased to send me to render what aid I can. His Royal Highness’s own wound is slight—”
“Back to your master!” exclaimed Burroughs, apparently beside himself with rage and grief, and standing between Kirschner and Grafton. “My friend is dead—shot down by that assassin!”
Dr. Kirschner put on the death-bed look. “Let us hope not so bad as that.”
“Yes—dead,” said Berners, looking round at his colleague and shielding Grafton so that Kirschner could not see his chest. “He is shot through the heart.”