For answer, Brace Norton’s lips moved as he slowly took his place opposite to his adversary, when, with a malignant look of hatred, that could hardly have been expected from a man of his character, Lord Maudlaine smiled triumphantly, as he too examined the cap of his pistol, and then drew the ramrod, to thrust it down the barrel. Then, as if stricken by paralysis, the look of hate and triumph faded from his face, to leave it of a sickly green hue, his jaw fell, his hand trembled visibly, and his knees shook beneath him; for, in spite of his management, Lord Maudlaine was at his opponent’s mercy: he had carefully charged one pistol only with ball, and, in his agitation, he had let that weapon pass into his rival’s hand, while his own contained but a blank charge.
The Viscount’s aspect was truly pitiable, and for a moment it was in his heart to beg for mercy; but, as if mechanically, he faced his rival, and with the dread upon him that his treachery would be discovered, he prepared to fire.
Guilt requires no accusers: he could not think then to say that his pistol was not fully charged—he could not see that he had a generous enemy to deal with. He measured his adversary by himself; and, feeling that his last hour had come, he prepared to fire.
“Will your lordship give the signal—the dropping of a handkerchief?” said Brace. “We have no seconds to take the duty.”
“No! You!” gasped the Viscount; and Brace gazed wonderingly at the pitiable fear evinced by his opponent, who had nerved himself into standing upright, and now retained his position in almost a cataleptic state.
Brace drew forth a white handkerchief, and then with his pistol covered his adversary—the man whom his heart told him a careful aim would remove from his path for ever.
“At the word three,” said Brace, calmly; and then, after a pause, “One—two—three!”
One pistol only exploded, there was a faint puff of smoke, and Lord Maudlaine fell back in the woodland path; while with scorn, contempt, almost pity for the coward before him struggling for the mastery, Brace Norton, with his undischarged pistol in his hand, slowly walked up to where, pale, and with his face bathed in perspiration, Lord Maudlaine, who had fallen, half fainting with fear, gazed up at him with the most horrified aspect conceivable.
“Would you murder me?” he gasped at last, as Brace, pistol in hand, stood over him.
“Murder you!” said Brace scornfully. “No, my lord. You may rise. You challenged me to meet you, and I have received your fire. Your lordship is now probably content. I might try to make terms now, but I should be sorry to take so pitiful an advantage. There is your pistol, my lord. I wish you good day.”