Without further word the stranger slowly drew himself together. He raised his arm, while his opponent did the same.
"Once! Twice! Thrice!" There was a crack like that of a cattle-whip. Simultaneously some splinters of wood were blown from the left side of the wheeled chair.
The Marquis Tristran smiled. He had reserved his fire. He could aim now with fatal effect
"It is murder!" muttered Alan, horrified; but at that moment the Marquis spoke. Alan leaned forward, intent to hear.
"At last!" That was all. But in the words was a concentrated longing for revenge, the utterance of a vivid hate.
Tristran de Kerival slowly and with methodical malignity took aim. There was a flash, the same whip-like crack.
For a moment it seemed as though the ball had missed its mark. Then, suddenly, there was a bubbling of red froth at the mouth of the stranger. Still, he stood erect.
Alan looked at the Marquis de Kerival. He was leaning back, deathly white, but with the bitter, suppressed smile which every one at the château knew and hated.
All at once the General swayed, lunged forward, and fell prone.