"We were wilfully misdirected and went astray. And now, Peregrine, give me the pistol!"
"No, sir! Indeed you cannot, shall not take my place. This quarrel is wholly mine—a quarrel, sir, of two years' standing—"
"But mine, Peregrine, is of twenty-one years'."
"None the less, sir, you shall not shield me thus—none other shall take my place, I am here to meet that scoundrel yonder—"
"Ah, Peregrine," said my uncle, speaking very slowly and distinctly, "the scoundrel yonder, Sir Geoffrey Devereux, is the man who foully murdered your father and my brother! Give me the pistol, boy!"
As he spoke he grasped my wrist and had possessed himself of the weapon or ever I could prevent. Then he turned and faced Devereux, his eyes very keen and bright.
"George," said he in his quiet, authoritative voice, "pray give us the word."
My uncle George, still sitting his horse, lifted his right hand and I saw that he also held a pistol.
"Devereux," said he, his handsome face very fierce and grim, "if—this time—you fire before the word, even by one fraction of a second, I shoot you where you stand for the vile murderer you are—by God, I will! Now mark me! The word will be 'One—two—three—fire!' Is this understood?"
"Yes, George!" said my uncle; Devereux nodded.