“Three!” he exclaimed, in the tone of a man pronouncing a death-sentence; and the handkerchief fell.
There were two reports in quick succession.
Varhely stood erect in his position; Menko’s ball had cut a branch above his head, and the green leaves fell fluttering to the ground.
Michel staggered back, his hand pressed to his left side.
His seconds hastened toward him, seized him under the arms, and tried to raise him.
“It is useless,” he said. “It was well aimed!”
And, turning to Varhely, he cried, in a voice which he strove to render firm:
“Remember your promise!”
They opened his coat. The ball had entered his breast just above the heart.
They seated him upon the grass, with his back against a tree.