“Are you a good shot?” I asked anxiously.

“Pretty well.  I can write my initials in bullet-holes on a sheet of notepaper at forty paces, or toss up half-a-crown as I ride at full gallop, and let the daylight through it as it comes down.”

“Thank Heaven!”

“Not so fast, my boy.  De Caylus is just as fine a shot, and one of the most skilful swordsmen in the French service.”

“Ay, but the first fire is yours!”

“Is it?  Well, I suppose it is.  He struck the first blow, and so—­here they come.”

“One more word, Dalrymple—­did he really cheat you at ecarte?”

“Upon my soul, I don’t know.  He did hold the king very often, and there are some queer stories told of him in Vienna by the officers of the Emperor’s Guard.  At all events, this is not the first duel he has had to fight in defence of his good-fortune!”

De Simoncourt now coming forward, we adjourned at once to the wood behind the village.  A little open glade was soon found; the ground was soon measured; the pistols were soon loaded.  De Caylus looked horribly pale, but it was the pallor of concentrated rage, with nothing of the craven hue in it.  Dalrymple, on the contrary, had neither more nor less color than usual, and puffed away at his cigar with as much indifference as if he were waiting his turn at the pit of the Comedie Francaise.  Both were clothed in black from head to foot, with their coats buttoned to the chin.

“All is ready,” said De Simoncourt.  “Gentlemen, choose your weapons.”

De Caylus took his pistols one by one, weighed and poised them, examined the priming, and finally, after much hesitation, decided.

Dalrymple took the first that came to hand.

The combatants then took their places—­De Caylus with his hat pulled low over his eyes; Dalrymple still smoking carelessly.

They exchanged bows.

“Major Dalrymple,” said De Simoncourt, “it is for you to fire first.”

“God bless you, Damon!” said my friend, shaking me warmly by the hand.

He then half turned aside, flung away the end of his cigar, lifted his right arm suddenly, and fired.

I heard the dull thud of the ball—­I saw De Caylus fling up his arms and fall forward on the grass.  I saw Dalrymple running to his assistance.  The next instant, however, the wounded man was on his knees, ghastly and bleeding, and crying for his pistol.

“Give it me!” he gasped—­“hold me up!  I—­I will have his life yet!  So, steady—­steady!”

Shuddering, but not for his own danger, Dalrymple stepped calmly back to his place; while De Caylus, supported by his second, struggled to his feet and grasped his weapon.  For a moment he once more stood upright.  His eye burned; his lips contracted; he seemed to gather up all his strength for one last effort.  Slowly, steadily, surely, he raised his pistol—­then swaying heavily back, fired, and fell again.