“Take up your pistols, then—they lie there on the table. We will turn, back to back, and walk each to his own end of the room, then turn and fire—if that do not the work, let the sword finish it.”
“Amen!” said St. Aubyn, “and the Lord have mercy on your soul, for I will send it to your cousin in five minutes.”
“And may the Fiend of Hell have yours—as he will, if there be either Fiend or God. Are you ready?”
“Ay.”
“Then off with you, and when you reach the wall, turn and fire.”
And as he spoke, he turned away, and walked slowly and deliberately with measured strides toward the door by which he had entered.
Before he had taken six steps, however, a bullet whistled past his ear, cutting a lock off his hair in its passage, and rebounded from the wall, flattened at his feet. Jasper had turned at once, and fired at him with deliberate aim.
“Ha! double murderer! die in your treason!” and the sailor leveled his pistol in turn, and pulled the trigger; had it gone off, Jasper St. Aubyn’s days were ended then and there; but no flash followed the sparks from the flint—and he cast the useless weapon from him.
At once they both raised their second pistol, and again Jasper’s was discharged with a quick, sharp report; and almost simultaneously with the crack, a dull sound, as of a blow, followed it; and he knew that his ball had taken effect on his enemy.
Again Durzil’s pistol failed him; and then, for the first time, Jasper observed that the seaman’s clothes were soaked with water. He had swam that rapid stream, and followed his beloved Theresa’s murderer, almost with the speed of the stout horse that bore him home.