“Shall we?” replied my companion, standing up in the gig, and shading his eyes with his hand. “Yes, I see them, they're on the ground already, and, by Jove, they are placing their men; they must have altered the time, for it wants full ten minutes of five now.”
“If they have,” replied I, lashing the horse into a gallop, as I remembered that this unhappy change would probably frustrate Coleman's scheme, “if they have, all is lost.”
My companion gazed upon me with a look of surprise, but had no time to ask for an explanation, for at that moment we reached the gate leading into the field, around which was collected a group, consisting of a gig and a dog-cart (which had conveyed the respective parties, and a servant attendant upon each, to the ground), and two or three labouring men, whom the unusual occurrence had caused to leave their work, and who were eagerly watching the proceedings—whilst, just inside the gate, a boy, whom I recognised as Wilford's tiger, was leading about a couple of saddle-horses, one of them being the magnificent black thorough-bred mare, of which mention has been already made.
Pulling up the horse with a jerk which threw him on his haunches, I sprang out, and, placing my hand on the top rail of the gate, leaped over it, gaining, as I did so, a full view of the antagonist parties, who were stationed at about two hundred yards from the spot where I alighted. Scarcely, however, had I taken a step or two towards the scene of action when one of the seconds, Wentworth, I believe, dropped a white handkerchief, and immediately the sharp report of a pistol rang in my ear, followed instantaneously by a second. From the first moment I caught sight of them my eyes had become riveted by a species of fascination, which rendered it impossible to withdraw them, upon Oaklands. As the handkerchief dropped I beheld him raise his arm, and discharge his pistol in the air, at the same moment he gave a violent start, pressed his hand to his side, staggered blindly forward a pace or two, then fell heavily to the ground (rolling partially over as he did so), where he lay perfectly motionless, and to all appearance dead.
On finding all my worst forebodings thus apparently realised, I stood for a moment horror-stricken by the fearful sight I had witnessed. I was first roused to a sense of the necessity for action by Ellis, the surgeon, who shouted as he ran past me:—
“Come on, for God's sake, though I believe he's a dead man!”'
In another moment I was kneeling on the turf, assisting Archer (who trembled so violently that he could scarcely retain his grasp) to raise and support Oaklands' head.
“Leave him to me,” said I; “I can hold him without assistance; you will be of more use helping Ellis.”