{"Yes."
{
{"Yes."
"One,——two,——three!"
He dropped the handkerchief, and both gentlemen fired simultaneously. Mr. Neville's hat spun into the air; Griffith stood untouched.
The bullet had passed through Neville's hat, and had actually cut a lane through his magnificent hair.
The seconds now consulted, and it was intimated to Griffith that a word of apology would be accepted by his antagonist. Griffith declined to utter a syllable of apology.
Two more pistols were given the men.
"Aim lower," said Rickards.
"I mean to," said Griffith.
The seconds withdrew, and the men eyed each other,—Griffith dogged and pale, as before, Neville not nearly so self-assured: Griffith's bullet, in grazing him, had produced the effect of a sharp, cold current of air no wider than a knife. It was like Death's icy fore-finger laid on his head, to mark him for the next shot,—as men mark a tree, then come again and fell it.