In the utter and awful silence which followed, Demon George, still against the wall, nursing his jaw with one hand, stared at his victim, waiting for him to drop. Not a soul dared stir. The Marquis, under the concentrating gaze, slowly twisted round, clinging to the bar for support. His face was wreathed in agony—agony not only physical but mental—of hope shattered—and he did not want the crowd to see it.
And then, like a flash, gathering his waning strength in one heroic and desperate effort, he whirled round. He could use a weapon now! The six shots of the Marquis' revolver chopped the hush—six wild, fierce claps of sound.
"You—damn—dog!" whispered the Marquis, as he fired.
Demon George had not expected the fire, since he had mortally wounded his man. He pitched onto his face, stone dead; and the Marquis slid, grinning, to the floor.
It had all happened in the space of a minute.
From outside came the rush of Corporal Savage's patrol.
The Corporal burst in, flinging the crowd aside. His eyes fell on the Marquis.
"Christ!" he said.
In a moment he had the Marquis in his arms.
The awe-struck crowd stood motionless.