The fog thickened and thickened, until nothing was to be seen.  Once we heard the surgeon’s voice, calling impatiently for a light to help him.  No light appeared that we could see.  Dreary as the fog itself, the silence gathered round us again.  On a sudden it was broken, horribly broken, by another voice, strange to both of us, shrieking hysterically through the impenetrable mist.  “Where is he?” the voice cried, in the French language.  “Assassin!  Assassin! where are you?” Was it a woman? or was it a boy?  We heard nothing more.  The effect upon Romayne was terrible to see.  He who had calmly confronted the weapon lifted to kill him, shuddered dumbly like a terror-stricken animal.  I put my arm round him, and hurried him away from the place.

We waited at the hotel until our French friend joined us.  After a brief interval he appeared, announcing that the surgeon would follow him.

The duel had ended fatally.  The chance course of the bullet, urged by Romayne’s unpracticed hand, had struck the General’s son just above the right nostril—­had penetrated to the back of his neck—­and had communicated a fatal shock to the spinal marrow.  He was a dead man before they could take him back to his father’s house.

So far, our fears were confirmed.  But there was something else to tell, for which our worst presentiments had not prepared us.

A younger brother of the fallen man (a boy of thirteen years old) had secretly followed the dueling party, on their way from his father’s house—­had hidden himself—­and had seen the dreadful end.  The seconds only knew of it when he burst out of his place of concealment, and fell on his knees by his dying brother’s side.  His were the frightful cries which we had heard from invisible lips.  The slayer of his brother was the “assassin” whom he had vainly tried to discover through the fathomless obscurity of the mist.

We both looked at Romayne.  He silently looked back at us, like a man turned to stone.  I tried to reason with him.

“Your life was at your opponent’s mercy,” I said.  “It was he who was skilled in the use of the pistol; your risk was infinitely greater than his.  Are you responsible for an accident?  Rouse yourself, Romayne!  Think of the time to come, when all this will be forgotten.”

“Never,” he said, “to the end of my life.”

He made that reply in dull, monotonous tones.  His eyes looked wearily and vacantly straight before him.  I spoke to him again.  He remained impenetrably silent; he appeared not to hear, or not to understand me.  The surgeon came in, while I was still at a loss what to say or do next.  Without waiting to be asked for his opinion, he observed Romayne attentively, and then drew me away into the next room.

“Your friend is suffering from a severe nervous shock,” he said.  “Can you tell me anything of his habits of life?”

I mentioned the prolonged night studies and the excessive use of tea.  The surgeon shook his head.