“Here you are, Rockley,” said Sir Harry, in a voice that was husky, and not quite firm. “You’ll wing him, won’t you, or give him a ball through one of his legs?”
“If I can shoot straight,” said Rockley coldly—“and my arm is pretty firm this morning—there shall be a funeral in Saltinville next Sunday.”
“No, no. Gad, man, don’t do that. Think of yourself if you killed him.”
“I could get over it,” was the reply. “The Prince would help me; and if he wouldn’t—curse that Linnell, I’d sacrifice anything to pay him back his debt.”
“Yes, you’re firm enough, Dick. Mind: as Payne gives the word, raise your pistol and fire at once. You will not hit him, but the quick flash will spoil his aim. I will not consent to another shot. If he wants another it shall be at me. Now then; you understand?”
“Yes,” said Linnell firmly, “I understand, Mellersh. I shall not fire at him. If I fall—badly hit—tell Claire Denville I sent her my dear love.”
“Be firm, man. You will not fall,” said the Colonel, pressing his hand. Then, glancing at Sir Harry Payne, who was waiting, he walked away towards a certain prearranged point, where he and Sir Harry stood together in the grey morning light; while, back to back, there were the principals, each grasping his heavy duelling pistol, with the chalk cliff towering above, and, fifty yards away, the waves uttering their low, whispering sound.
Just then a couple of gulls floated by, grey and ghostly in the dull mist, uttering their faint and peevish cry, and a few drops of rain began to fall.
“Are you ready, gentlemen?” said Sir Harry Payne hoarsely.
No one spoke, but the principals bowed their heads.