"Take her hand, Arnold Dampierre."
"Do you take this woman as your wife?"
As the words left his lips, there was a pistol-shot. With a low cry, Arnold fell across the table. Cuthbert had turned at the report, and as the man who had fired, lowered his pistol to repeat the shot, he sprang forward, and struck him with all his weight and strength on the temple. The man fell like a log, his pistol exploding as he did so. With a cry like that of a wounded animal Minette had turned around, snatched a dagger from her girdle, and, as the man fell, she sprang to his side and leant over him with uplifted knife. Cuthbert caught her wrist as she was about to strike.
"Do not soil your hand with blood, Minette," he said quietly as she turned fiercely upon him. "Arnold would not like it; leave this fellow to justice, and give your attention to him."
Dropping the knife she ran forward to the table again, two or three of Arnold's colleagues were already leaning over him. Believing that her lover was dead, Minette would have thrown herself on his body, but they restrained her.
"He is not dead, Minette, the wound is not likely to be fatal, he is only hit in the shoulder."
"You are lying, you are lying, he is dead," Minette cried, struggling to free herself from their restraining arms.
"It is as they say, Minette," her father said, leaning over Arnold, "here is the bullet hole in his coat, it is the same shoulder that was broken before; he will recover, child, calm yourself, I order you."
Minette ceased to struggle, and burst into a passion of tears.
"You had better send a man to fetch a surgeon at once," Cuthbert said to one of the Communists. "I have no doubt Arnold has but fainted from the shock, coming as it did at such a moment," He then looked at the wound.