"Ready!" said uncle George distinctly. "One—two—three—fire!"
A single sharp report and my uncle Jervas, lurching slightly, stared down at his weapon that had merely sparked and, letting it fall, staggered aside to a tree and leaned there.
In an instant uncle George was off his horse and together we ran to him.
"Aha, George—" he gasped in a horrible, wheezing voice, "it—it was unprimed—lend me—yours!"
"O God!" groaned my uncle George. "You're hit, Jervas—are you hurt?"
"A little, George—your pistol—quick!"
But even as he spoke and despite all his resolution and indomitable will, he seemed about to swoon; I saw his knees slowly bending under him, his stately head sank, and crying out in horror, I reached out to clasp him in my arms.
"No, no, Perry!" he gasped. "Don't touch me—yet—I have sufficient strength—dear boy." For a moment he closed his eyes and when next he spoke his voice was strangely loud and clear.
"Devereux, if ever you prayed—pray now!" Yet as he uttered these words, he sank to his knees and leaned feebly against the tree, his pallid face suddenly contorted by a dreadful spasm, so that I could scarcely bear to look. Then, sweating with the agonising effort, slowly—slowly—he raised his arm, dwelt a moment on his aim, and fired; the smoking weapon dropped from his lax fingers and, swaying sideways, he sank down, his face among the grass.
I remember my uncle George running to aid me lift this heavy head; and glancing from these dreadfully pallid features, the pitiful helplessness of this once strong form, I saw a group of pale-faced men who knelt and crouched above a twisted thing that had once answered to the name of Devereux.