“Some evil report, I presume?” laughed the Prince.

“Many of them,” was the answer.

The Prince showed his teeth.  “Count, these Americans are a positive refreshment.  I have yet to meet one who is not frankness itself.  At your pleasure!”

And the four of us left the inn and crossed the field.  The first shot fell to me.  Pembroke’s eyes beamed with exultant light.  Von Walden’s face was without expression.  As for the Prince, he still wore that bantering smile.  He was confident of the end.  He knew that I was a tyro, whereas he had faced death many times.  I sighed.  I knew that I should not aim to take his life.  I was absolutely without emotion; there was not the slightest tremble in my hand as I accepted the pistol.  There is nothing like set purpose to still the tremors of a man’s nerves.  I thought of Hillars, and for a moment my arm stiffened; then I recalled Gretchen’s last letter. . . .  I fell to wondering where the bullet would hit me.  I prayed that his aim might be sure.

“Many persons think that I am a man without compassion,” said the Prince, as we were about to step to our places.  “I have an abundance of it.  You have everything to lose, and I have nothing to gain.  If it is your desire, I shall be happy to explain that you wish to withdraw.  But say the word.”

He knew what my reply would be.  “Withdraw,” said I, “and have you laugh at me and tell your friends that I acted the poltroon?  Really, you do me injustice.”

“And do you hate me so very much?” mockery in his eyes.

“Not now.  I did hate you, but hatred is a thing we should not waste any more than love.  I have taken the bird and the nest from your hands; that is more than enough.  You are merely an object for scorn and contempt and indifference now.  No; I have no wish to withdraw.”

“You read between the lines,” he said.  “Indeed, I should like nothing better than to have the privilege of calling you a poltroon and a coward and to tell your Princess of it.”  He sauntered back to his place leisurely.

“Aim the slightest to the left,” whispered Pembroke; “the wind will carry it home.”

I pressed his hand.  A moment later I stood facing the Prince.  I lifted the pistol and fired.  Had the Prince been ten feet to the right he must have been hit.  I threw the smoking pistol aside, let my arms fall and waited.  I could see that Pembroke was biting his lip to hide his anxiety and disappointment.  Slowly the Prince leveled the weapon at my breast.  Naturally I shut my eyes.  Perhaps there was a prayer on my lips.  God! how long that wait seemed to me.  It became so tedious that I opened my eyes again.  The pistol arm of the Prince appeared to have frozen in the air.

“It is getting cold,” I cried.  “Shoot, for God’s sake shoot, and end it!”

In reply the Prince fired into the air, took the pistol by the barrel and flung it at my feet.  The rest of us looked on dumfounded.