"Gladly!" cried Guilford, too excited by the pleasing thought thus presented to read aright the sneering tone and the yellowish glitter of the black eyes.
"You are very kind. But I fear both my wife and your property would object. Besides, I've taken a notion to her myself. And captain before lieutenant, you know."
"Then you refuse to—"
"Bah! why so much to-do about a trifle? you grow tiresome, Guilford. We will have to select another officer from the ranks."
At this sentence—the last—Yellow Jack gave an evidence of his marvelous quickness. A sudden glitter of steel—a flash—a report, and then a death-groan.
Charles Guilford lay upon his face, the blood slowly oozing from a tiny, discolored hole in the center of his forehead.
A low cry rose round the group. A simultaneous movement—and full two-score hands fell upon as many weapons.
The tall, lithe form drew more erect, with head flung back and eyes that seemed like glowing coals. Click—click, went the notchlike springs of his pistols.
The sullen roar of two-score voices ceased. The weapons, though still clutched, were not drawn. And the foremost slowly shrunk back. Fear was written upon their faces.
And all this because one man seemed awakened. But that man was Yellow Jack.