Then the drawing-room door opened. The General, instinctively dropping his arm and turning, shouted at his wife:
“Go back! Go back, I tell you!”
There was a blaze as if all the electric lamps had exploded, and a crash that seemed to shake the walls. Then again came the flash and the roar. Mr. Ridsdale had fired twice.
For a moment the room was full of smoke. Then the dusty cloud rose, grew thin. The lamplight, shining unimpeded, showed General Beckford still upon his feet, standing square and erect, with Cynthia desperately clinging to his breast.
“What’s this?” said the General, loudly and sternly. “Has the smoke blinded you, Cynthia? Why have you come to me? Your place is not here. Go to your lover’s arms.”
But she clung to him closer. She was stretching her slender figure to its fullest height, trying to cover his limbs with her limbs, his face with her face, madly straining to make a shield of trembling flesh large enough to protect him from danger.
“The coward!” she wailed. “The miserable coward! He shot at you when you weren’t looking. He tried to kill you!”
“Then get out of the way,” said the General, “and let him try again. Can’t you see how you’re hampering him? This is his chance and yours. Don’t spoil it. Let him set you free.”
But Cynthia only trembled, sobbed, and clung.
“Very well,” and the General laughed harshly. “We have been interrupted, and my opponent must kindly understand that his chance is gone. Cynthia, do you hear? He won’t shoot again. Now, stop whimpering, and answer me.”