O’Leary, who saw the incident, and guessed the action aright, called out: 

“Oh, the cold-blooded villain; the devil a chance for you, Mr. Lorrequer.”

“Messieurs, your pistols,” said Le Capitaine la Garde, who, as he handed the weapons, and repeated once more the conditions of the combat, gave the word to march.

I now walked slowly forward to the place marked out by the stone; but it seemed that I must have been in advance of my opponent, for I remember some seconds elapsed before Trevanion coughed slightly, and then with a clear full voice called out “Une,” “Deux.”  I had scarcely turned myself half round, when my right arm was suddenly lifted up, as if by a galvanic shock.  My pistol jerked upwards, and exploded the same moment, and then dropped powerlessly from my hand, which I now felt was covered with warm blood from a wound near the elbow.  From the acute but momentary pang this gave me, my attention was soon called off; for scarcely had my arm been struck, when a loud clattering noise to my left induced me to turn, and then, to my astonishment, I saw my friend O’Leary about twelve feet from the ground, hanging on by some ash twigs that grew from the clefts of the granite.  Fragments of broken rock were falling around him, and his own position momentarily threatened a downfall.  He was screaming with all his might; but what he said was entirely lost in the shouts of laughter of Trevanion and the Frenchmen, who could scarcely stand with the immoderate exuberance of their mirth.

I had not time to run to his aid—­which, although wounded, I should have done—­when the branch he clung to, slowly yielded with his weight, and the round, plump figure of my poor friend rolled over the little cleft of rock, and, after a few faint struggles, came tumbling heavily down, and at last lay peaceably in the deep heather at the bottom—­his cries the whole time being loud enough to rise even above the vociferous laughter of the others.

I now ran forward, as did Trevanion, when O’Leary, turning his eyes towards me, said, in the most piteous manner—­

“Mr. Lorrequer, I forgive you—­here is my hand—­bad luck to their French way of fighting, that’s all—­it’s only good for killing one’s friend.  I thought I was safe up there, come what might.”

“My dear O’Leary,” said I, in an agony, which prevented my minding the laughing faces around me, “surely you don’t mean to say that I have wounded you?”

“No, dear, not wounded, only killed me outright—­through the brain it must be, from the torture I’m suffering.”

The shout with which this speech was received, sufficiently aroused me; while Trevanion, with a voice nearly choked with laughter, said—­

“Why, Lorrequer, did you not see that your pistol, on being struck, threw your ball high up on the quarry; fortunately, however, about a foot and a half above Mr. O’Leary’s head, whose most serious wounds are his scratched hands and bruised bones from his tumble.”