René threw himself to right and felt a sharp twinge of pain where the ball grazed the skin of his left shoulder. "Dog of a Jacobin!" he cried, and as Carteaux extended his pistol hand in instinctive protest, De Courval fired. The man's pistol fell, and with a cry of pain he reeled, and, as the smoke blew away, was seen to pitch forward on his face.
At the moment of the shot, and while René stood still, quickly reloading, he heard behind him a wild gallop, and, turning, saw Schmidt breathless at his side, and in an instant out of the saddle. "Lieber Himmel!" cried the German, "have you killed him?"
"I do not know; but if he is not dead. I shall kill him; not even you can stop me."
"Ach! but I will, if I have to hold you." As he spoke he set himself between René and the prostrate man. "I will not let you commit murder. Give me that pistol."
For a moment René stared at his friend. Then a quick remembrance of all this man had been to him, all he had done for him, rose in his mind.
"Have your way, sir!" he cried, throwing down his weapon; "but I will never forgive you, never!"
"Ach! that is better," said Schmidt. "To-morrow you will forgive and thank me. Let us look at the rascal."
Together they moved forward, and while De Courval stood by in silence, Schmidt, kneeling beside Carteaux, turned over his insensible body.
"He is not dead," he said, looking up at René.
"I am sorry. Your coming disturbed my aim. I am sorry he is alive."