He walked on. Perhaps his cheeks paled and his lips were set close, because he knew that he was walking to his death.
The steps behind him approached faster—faster. Lord Harry never even turned his head. The man was close behind him. The man was beside him.
"Mickey O'Flynn it is," said Lord Harry.
"'Tis a —— traitor, you are," said the man.
"Your friends the Invincibles told you that, Mickey. Why, do you think I don't know, man, what are you here for? Well?" he stopped. "I am unarmed. You have got a revolver in your hand—the hand behind your back. What are you stopping for?"
"I cannot," said the man.
"You must, Mickey O'Flynn—you must; or it's murdered you'll be yourself," said Lord Harry, coolly. "Why, man, 'tis but to lift your hand. And then you'll be a murderer for life. I am another—we shall both be murderers then. Why don't you fire, man."
"By —— I cannot!" said Mickey. He held the revolver behind him, but he did not lift his arm. His eyes started: his mouth was open; the horror of the murderer was upon him before the murder was committed. Then he started. "Look!" he cried. "Look behind you, my lord!"
Lord Harry turned. The second man was upon him. He bent forward and peered in his face.
"Arthur Mountjoy's murderer!" he cried, and sprang at his throat.