"In three seconds he had me on the edge of the cliff, forcing me over. It was then by chance that my hand touched the revolver in my belt. I drew it and shot!"
Trascott looked at his friend with fearful apprehension. "You shot?" he whispered, quaveringly.
Something rustled like wind or rain. Ainsworth glanced again at the sombre tapestry.
"What's that?" he asked, a slight superstitious inflection in his smooth tone. "The storm?" No one offered a different opinion, and he looked back to the rude cartridge table with the light on it and the tense faces of Trascott and Britton at either end.
"For God's sake, Britton," Trascott was tremulously saying, "let us understand this thing aright. You fired?"
"I shot Lessari dead, in self-defence," Britton replied, his countenance drawn and haggard.
CHAPTER XXI.
Trascott arose suddenly from his chair and leaned upon the table.
"My God, my God," he groaned in intense commiseration, "this is terrible–to have such a thing thrust upon you!"
The lawyer had sprung from his position of attentiveness against the wall to the curate's side, and he, too, leaned toward Britton, who sat motionless like a carven statue.