“When I say ‘three,’” said Sir Harry, “you will turn round and fire. One—two—three!”
As the last word left Sir Harry Payne’s lips, the principals turned quickly round, and almost simultaneously came two sharp echoing reports following the faint puffs of smoke that shrouded the duellists for the moment.
Then, as the seconds were starting forward, Mellersh saw that Rockley was looking up at the face of the cliff. Then he looked down at Richard Linnell, who, as the shots were fired, twisted himself sharply round, dropping his pistol, and now stood with one hand pressed to his temple.
Mellersh saw a curious smile on Rockley’s face, and a hoarse gasp came from his throat.
“It is my fate to shoot another man—dead!” he muttered; and he was just in time to catch Richard Linnell as he reeled and was about to fall.
The doctor was coming up quickly, and Sir Harry had run to his principal.
“You’ve killed him,” he whispered.
“I hope so,” was the cool reply. “I’m not sure, though. That cursed piece of chalk fell from the cliff as I fired, and spoiled my aim. Go and see where he is hurt.”
As Sir Harry ran off, Rockley stooped and picked up a piece of chalk rock as big as his fist, and then threw it down, dusting his hand afterwards, and then removing the mark of the chalk where it had struck him upon his right shoulder.
“Pah!” he exclaimed, pressing his handkerchief to his lip, which was cut; “the thing bounced up. I hope it has not saved Mr Richard Linnell’s life.”