"Yes," said the Prince.
Hillars simply nodded.
"When I have counted three you will be at liberty to fire. One!"
The arms raised slowly till the pistols were on the level of the eyes.
"Two!"
The innkeeper saw Hillars move his lips. That was the only sign.
"Three!"
The pistols exploded simultaneously. The right arm of the Prince swung back violently, the smoking pistol flying from his hand. Suddenly one of the horses gave a snort of pain and terror, and bolted down the road. No attention was given to the horse. The others were watching Hillars. He stood perfectly motionless. All at once the pistol fell from his hand; then both hands flew instinctively to his breast. There was an expression of surprise on his face. His eyes closed, his knees bent forward, and he sank into the road a huddled heap. The Prince shrugged, a sigh of relief fell from the Count's half-parted lips, while the innkeeper ran toward the fallen man.
"Are you hurt, Prince?" asked the Count.
"The damned fool has blown off my elbow!" was the answer. "Bind it up with your handkerchief, and help me on with my coat. There is nothing more to do; if he is not dead he soon will be, so it's all the same."