Clancy is soon among them; and sees crouching between two pilasters, the man who meant to murder him—Richard Darke as conjectured.
Darke makes no attempt at explanation. Clancy calls for none. His rifle is already cocked; and, soon as seeing his adversary, he raises it to his shoulder, exclaiming:—
“Scoundrel! you’ve had the first shot. It’s my turn now.”
Darke does not remain inactive, but leaps—forth from his lurking-place, to obtain more freedom for his arms. The buttresses hinder him from having elbow room. He also elevates his gun; but, perceiving it will be too late, instead of taking aim, he lowers the piece again, and dodges behind the tree.
The movement, quick and subtle, as a squirrel’s bound, saves him. Clancy fires without effect. His ball but pierces through the skirt of Darke’s coat, without touching his body.
With a wild shout of triumph, the latter advances upon his adversary, whose gun is now empty. His own, a double-barrel, has a bullet still undischarged. Deliberately bringing the piece to his shoulder, and covering the victim he is now sure of, he says derisively,—
“What a devilish poor shot you’ve made, Mister Charlie Clancy! A sorry marksman—to miss a man scarce six feet from the muzzle of your gun! I shan’t miss you. Turn about’s fair play. I’ve had the first, and I’ll have the last. Dog! take your death shot!”
While delivering the dread speech, his finger presses the trigger; the crack comes, with the flash and fiery jet.
For some seconds Clancy is invisible, the sulphurous smoke forming a nimbus around him. When it ascends, he is seen prostrate upon the earth; the blood gushing from a wound in his breast, and spurting over his waistcoat.
He appears writhing in his death agony.