"N-not a word—you're going to fight me—"
"Never!"
"Pick up that pistol—or I'll sh-shoot you where you stand!"
"No!"
"I'll c-count three!" said Barrymaine, his pale face livid against the darkness behind, "One! Two!—"
But, on the instant, Barnabas sprang in and closed with him, and, grappled in a fierce embrace, they swayed a moment and staggered out through the gaping doorway.
Barrymaine fought desperately. Barnabas felt his coat rip and tear, but he maintained his grip upon his opponent's pistol hand, yet twice the muzzle of the weapon covered him, and twice he eluded it before Barrymaine could fire. Therefore, seeing Barrymaine's intention, reading his deadly purpose in vicious mouth and dilated nostril, Barnabas loosed one hand, drew back his arm, and smote—swift and hard. Barrymaine uttered a cry that seemed to Barnabas to find an echo far off, flung out his arms and, staggering, fell.
Then Barnabas picked up the pistol and, standing over Barrymaine, spoke.
"I—had to—do it!" he panted. "Did I—hurt you much?"
But Ronald Barrymaine lay very white and still, and, stooping, Barnabas saw that he had struck much harder than he had meant, and that Barrymaine's mouth was cut and bleeding.