Abbott shrugged; and the colonel cursed himself for the guiltiest scoundrel unhung.
Half an hour later the opponents stood at each end of the tennis-court. Ellicott, the surgeon, had laid open his medical case. He was the most agitated of the five men. His fingers shook as he spread out the lints and bandages. The colonel and Courtlandt had solemnly gone through the formality of loading the weapons. The sun had not climbed over the eastern summits, but the snow on the western tops was rosy.
“At the word three, gentlemen, you will fire,” said the colonel.
The two shots came simultaneously. Abbott had deliberately pointed his into the air. For a moment he stood perfectly still; then, his knees sagged, and he toppled forward on his face.
“Great God!” whispered the colonel; “you must have forgotten the ramrod!”
He, Courtlandt, and the surgeon rushed over to the fallen man. The Barone stood like stone. Suddenly, with a gesture of horror, he flung aside his smoking pistol and ran across the court.
“Gentlemen,” he cried, “on my honor, I aimed three feet above his head.” He wrung his hands together in anxiety. “It is impossible! It is only that I wished to see if he were a brave man. I shoot well. It is impossible!” he reiterated.
Suddenly he flung aside his smoking pistol.