Terence O'Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
must trust—to the edge against the lead: to the straightforward sword against the subtle bullet.
Yet there were many feet between him and the revolver—perhaps ten yards. He had been criminally negligent in thus permitting the man a chance to redeem his life. He had trusted his life to the honor of one without honor, and he was to pay the price of his folly.
He had scarce moved before the revolver spoke again; and again the duke missed. He had, however, four bullets left, and remembering this, the man calmed himself, steadied his hand, took time for a more accurate aim. His next bullet ploughed through the adventurer's shoulder.
It was like being pierced by a rod of fire; for an instant O'Rourke was staggered; and then the burning agony maddened him. He felt that he was to pay the price of his own life for the duke's, yet felt that he would gladly do so if only he might pass the threshold of Eternity in company with the soul of Monsieur le Duc, Victor le Grandlieu.
Half blind with wrath, he threw himself towards the man, like an avenging angel with naming sword. There sounded one more shot: fortunately the revolver was of small caliber—no larger than a .38; though the bullet again took effect and found lodgment in the Irishman's side, yet the impact of it was not sufficient to stop him. He whirled on, swinging the broadsword high above his head.
Cold fear tightened about the heart of Monsieur the Duke. His fingers trembled. He fired again, futilely, then, in a gust of abject terror, dropped his weapon and leaped back, cowering his arms wavering above his head, a weak barrier against the gleaming yard of steel.
His heel caught, somehow, upon a rug, and he fell, but not more swiftly than the saber. The blade smashed, through
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