I could not be sure that he was well advised, for the blue dazzle of sunshine past the awning would throw out his figure into clear relief, as I noticed Crimp’s was projected, clean lined as a shadow cast by the moonlight on a white deck. ‘It may be as well to toss for position,’ I said. ‘No,’ cried Wilfrid, ‘I am content.’ I loaded his pistol and handed the weapons to the men. My heart thumped like a coward’s in my breast, but I strove hard to conceal my agitation for Wilfrid’s sake. Each took up his respective post, and both held their pistols at level. The Colonel exclaimed ‘Tell your mad relative to feather-edge himself. He is all front. ’Tis too irrational to take advantage of.’ Wilfrid heard him and cried out, ‘Let him look to himself. Ready with the signal, Charles.’ I pulled out my pocket-handkerchief, and as I did so old Crimp suddenly let go the wheel and came skimming up to Finn, rumbling out, in a voice half choked with tobacco-juice, that the gent’s pistol (meaning the Colonel’s) was upon him full, and that he wasn’t going to be made cold beef of for any man. ‘Ready, gentlemen!’ I cried, and desirous of emphasising the signal, lest the Colonel’s keener sight should witness the fall of the handkerchief before the flutter of it caught Wilfrid’s eye, I called out ‘_Now!_’ and the handkerchief fell to the deck. There was one report only; it was like the sharp crack of a whip. For the instant I did not know which man’s pistol had exploded, but the little curl of smoke at Wilfrid’s end told me that it was his. I saw the Colonel fling his arms up, and his weapon flashed as he seemed to fire it straight into the air. ‘Good God! how generous!’ was the thought that swept through me; ‘he will not fight.’ He continued holding his pistol elevated whilst you could have counted ten, with a slight backward leaning posture and an indescribable look in his face, absolutely as though he were endeavouring to follow the flight of the bullet; his weapon then fell to the deck, he made a clutch with both hands at his heart, with a deep groan sank--his knees yielding, and, with his hands still at his heart, dropped, as a wooden figure might, on his side and lay without motion. Finn and I rushed up to him. Whilst the skipper freed his neck I grasped his wrist, but found it pulseless. Yet it was difficult to credit that he was dead. His face was as reposeful as that of a sleeper. There was no look whatever of pain in it--nay, such faint distinguishable expression as I remember had the air of a light smile. I opened his coat, and found a small perforation in the shirt under the right arm; the orifice was as cleanly clipped as though made with a pair of scissors. There was no blood. ‘Dead, sir!’ exclaimed Finn. ‘A noble-looking gentleman, too. A pity, a pity! How gents of this kind stand upon their honour! yet they’re the people to break up homes.’ ‘Call Cutbill,’ said I, ‘and let the body be taken below.’