Reeling and giddy, he saw the muzzle of his own pistol pointed at his head, and expected nothing else than the bullet through his brains.
The cry of the coward came from his lips as he writhed under the terrible anticipation.
To his astonishment the shot was not fired!
Pierre Robideau, flinging the pistol away, stood before him apparently unarmed!
“No, Mr Alf Brandon!” said he, “shooting is too good for such a dog as you; and a dog’s death you shall have. Come away from here! Come on! I want to see which of us can hang longest by the hand. We tried it six years ago, but the trial wasn’t a fair one. ’Tis your turn now. Come on!”
More than ever astonished, Brandon hesitated to comply. The calm yet determined air of his antagonist told him it was no jest, but that something terrible was intended. He glanced stealthily to the right and left, and seemed to calculate the chances of escape.
Robideau read his thoughts.
“Don’t attempt it,” said he, throwing back the lapel of his coat, and showing the butt of a pistol. “I have this, and will use it if you make any effort to get off. Come!”
Saying this, he seized the cowering ruffian by the wrist, and, half leading, half dragging, hurried him away from the spot.
In five minutes after they stood under a tree—the same upon which Pierre Robideau had endured all the horrors of hanging.