“If he moves from behind it,” he reflected with satisfaction, “I am bound to see his legs.  But in any case he can’t come upon me unawares.”

And sure enough he saw the boots of General Feraud flash in and out, eclipsing for an instant everything else reflected in the little mirror.  He shifted its position accordingly.  But having to form his judgment of the change from that indirect view he did not realize that now his feet and a portion of his legs were in plain sight of General Feraud.

General Feraud had been getting gradually impressed by the amazing cleverness with which his enemy was keeping cover.  He had spotted the right tree with bloodthirsty precision.  He was absolutely certain of it.  And yet he had not been able to glimpse as much as the tip of an ear.  As he had been looking for it at the height of about five feet ten inches from the ground it was no great wonder—­but it seemed very wonderful to General Feraud.

The first view of these feet and legs determined a rush of blood to his head.  He literally staggered behind his tree, and had to steady himself against it with his hand.  The other was lying on the ground, then!  On the ground!  Perfectly still, too!  Exposed!  What could it mean? . . .  The notion that he had knocked over his adversary at the first shot entered then General Feraud’s head.  Once there it grew with every second of attentive gazing, overshadowing every other supposition—­irresistible, triumphant, ferocious.

“What an ass I was to think I could have missed him,” he muttered to himself.  “He was exposed en plein—­the fool!—­for quite a couple of seconds.”

General Feraud gazed at the motionless limbs, the last vestiges of surprise fading before an unbounded admiration of his own deadly skill with the pistol.

“Turned up his toes!  By the god of war, that was a shot!” he exulted mentally.  “Got it through the head, no doubt, just where I aimed, staggered behind that tree, rolled over on his back, and died.”

And he stared!  He stared, forgetting to move, almost awed, almost sorry.  But for nothing in the world would he have had it undone.  Such a shot!—­such a shot!  Rolled over on his back and died!

For it was this helpless position, lying on the back, that shouted its direct evidence at General Feraud!  It never occurred to him that it might have been deliberately assumed by a living man.  It was inconceivable.  It was beyond the range of sane supposition.  There was no possibility to guess the reason for it.  And it must be said, too, that General D’Hubert’s turned-up feet looked thoroughly dead.  General Feraud expanded his lungs for a stentorian shout to his seconds, but, from what he felt to be an excessive scrupulousness, refrained for a while.