"Eh—what? Across the table! but, oh, Gad, Chichester! this is madness!" said Mr. Dalton.
"Most duels are," said Barnabas, and as he spoke he drew from his pocket the pistol he had taken from Mr. Chichester earlier in the evening and, weapon in hand, sank into a chair, thus facing Mr. Chichester across the table.
"But this is murder—positive murder!" cried Mr. Dalton.
"Sir," said Barnabas, "I am no duellist, as I told you; and it seems to me that this equalizes our chances, for I can no more fail of hitting my man at this distance than he of shooting me dead across the width of the room. And, sir—if I am to—die to-night, I shall most earnestly endeavor to take Mr. Chichester with me."
There was a tremor in his voice again as he spoke, but his eye was calm, his brow serene, and his hand steady as he cocked the pistol, and leaning his elbow upon the table, levelled it within six inches of Mr. Chichester's shirt frill. But hereupon Mr. Dalton sprang to his feet with a stifled oath:
"I tell you it's murder—murder!" he exclaimed, and took a quick step towards them.
"Peterby!" said Barnabas.
"Sir?" said Peterby, who had been standing rigid beside the door.
"Take my stick," said Barnabas, holding it out towards him, but keeping his gaze upon Mr. Chichester's narrowed eyes; "it's heavy you'll find, and should this person presume to interfere, knock him down with it."
"Yes, sir," said Peterby, and took the stick accordingly.