Lucile, feeling that the world had broken up, fell back against the sofa, stunned with terror. Savrola rose and faced the President. Then she saw what a brave man he was, for as he did so he contrived to stand between the weapon and herself. "Put down your pistol," he said in a firm voice; "and you shall have an explanation."
"I will put it down," said Molara, "when I have killed you."
Savrola measured the distance between them with his eye. Could he spring in under the shot? Again he looked at the table where his own revolver lay. He shielded her, and he decided to stand still.
"Down on your knees and beg for mercy, you hound; down, or I will blow your face in!"
"I have always tried to despise death, and have always succeeded in despising you. I shall bow to neither."
"We shall see," said Molara, grinding his teeth. "I shall count five,—one!"
There was a pause. Savrola looked at the pistol barrel, a black spot encircled by a ring of bright steel; all the rest of the picture was a blank.
"Two!" counted the President.
So he was to die,—flash off this earth when that black spot burst into flame. He anticipated the blow full in his face; and beyond he saw nothing,—annihilation,—black, black night.
"Three!"