Sutherland undertook the operation, while the Chevalier watched him keenly. The pistols loaded, Gavrolles took one, Forster the other, and they moved to their places. It was arranged that the Chevalier and Sutherland should simultaneously count ten, and then utter the word “Fire,” which should be the signal for the duellists to discharge their weapons.
Sutherland placed his man in position. So little did Forster know of how to protect himself, so clumsy was his exposure of his vital parts, that the surgeon in attendance uttered an exclamation.
‘Mon Dieu!’ he cried. ‘It is not like a duel—but an assassination!’
Trembling with fear for Forster, who seemed quite helpless, Sutherland made one last appeal for him to withdraw, but the appeal was altogether useless.
‘Well, then, since it must be, cover your man well, and aim low. The moment the word is given, raise your aim and fire; don’t lose an instant, or he will anticipate you. You understand?’
‘Yes.’
The seconds moved away, while Gavrolles and Forster faced each other. On the face of the Frenchman there was a curious blending of self-confidence, malignity, and nervous anticipation.
The sun rose coldly over the damp sands, but the air was still dank and cold, and the seconds, in slow monotonous voices, began simultaneously to count.
One—two—three—four—five—six—seven—eight—nine—ten—‘fire!’
Before the last word was half pronounced, Gavrolles had raised his weapon, covered his opponent with lightning rapidity, and fired.