“So I notice,” I answered, taking the derringer from him, and examining it with some curiosity, “but I shall do as I said, nevertheless. It is not any sentiment of mercy I feel which spares him, but a duty that appeals to me even more strongly than hate.” “By Heaven, I wish it were otherwise.” I remained silent, for I could not say in my heart that I echoed his wish, and I cared not to go down in another minute with a lie upon my lips. The love of Edith Brennan, which I now felt assured was mine, was sweeter far to me than life. “Who gives the word?” I questioned. “I do; are you ready?” “Perfectly.” I held out my hand, and his fingers closed upon it with warm, friendly grip. The next moment Brennan and I stood, seemingly alone, facing each other, as motionless as two statues. His coat was buttoned to the throat, his cap-visor pulled low over his eyes, his pistol hand hanging straight down at his side, his gaze never wavering from me. I knew he was coolly, deliberately measuring the distance between us with as deadly a purpose as any murderer. The almost painful stillness was broken by Caton, and I marked the tremor in his voice. “Are you both ready, gentlemen?” “I am,” said Brennan. “Ready,” I replied. “The word will be one, two, three--fire; with a slight pause after the three. A report from either pistol before the final word is spoken I shall take personally. Be prepared now.” There was a moment's pause; so still was it I heard the chirping of birds overhead, and the flutter of a leaf as it fell swirling at my feet. I saw Brennan as through a mist, and in its undulations there seemed to be pictures of the face of his wife, as if her spirit hovered there between us. To have shot then would have been like piercing her before reaching him. “Ready!” said the voice once more; and as I saw Brennan's arm slowly rise, I lifted mine also, and covered him, noting, as I did so, almost in wonder, with what steadiness of nerve and wrist I held the slender gauge just beneath the visor of his cap. Deliberately, as though he dreaded the necessity, Caton counted: “One; two; three--_fire_!” My pistol exploded, the charge striking the limb above him, and I staggered backward, my hat torn from my head, a white line cut through my hair, and a thin trickle of blood upon my temple. I saw Caton rushing toward me, his face filled with anxiety, and then Brennan hurled his yet smoking derringer into the dirt at his feet with an oath. “Damn it, Moorehouse,” he roared, fairly beside himself, “the charge was too heavy; it overshot.” “Are you much hurt?” panted Caton. “Merely pricked the skin.” Then Brennan's angry voice rang out once more. “I demand another shot,” he insisted loudly. “I demand it, I tell you, Moorehouse. This settles nothing, and I will not be balked just because you don't know enough to load a gun.” Caton wheeled upon him, his blue eyes blazing dangerously. “You demand a second shot?” he cried indignantly.