Very deliberately my uncle Jervas dismounted and proceeded to tether his horse to an adjacent tree, while Devereux watched him, head bowed and black brows puckered slightly above his smouldering eyes, his snowy cravat stained with a small mark of blood from an ugly scratch beneath his chin and which, despite his icy assurance seemed to worry him, for he dabbed at it now and then with his handkerchief. And now my uncle Jervas approached me, his hand outstretched imperiously, but when he spoke his voice was strangely gentle: "Peregrine, dear boy, oblige me with that pistol." "God bless you, Uncle Jervas!" said I fervently grasping that hand. "I thought I recognised you when your horse leapt that tollgate, but fate elected I should arrive here first, as I prayed." "We were wilfully misdirected and went astray. And now, Peregrine, give me the pistol!" "No, sir! Indeed you cannot, shall not take my place. This quarrel is wholly mine--a quarrel, sir, of two years' standing--" "But mine, Peregrine, is of twenty-one years'." "None the less, sir, you shall not shield me thus--none other shall take my place, I am here to meet that scoundrel yonder--" "Ah, Peregrine," said my uncle, speaking very slowly and distinctly, "the scoundrel yonder, Sir Geoffrey Devereux, is the man who foully murdered your father and my brother! Give me the pistol, boy!" As he spoke he grasped my wrist and had possessed himself of the weapon or ever I could prevent. Then he turned and faced Devereux, his eyes very keen and bright. "George," said he in his quiet, authoritative voice, "pray give us the word." My uncle George, still sitting his horse, lifted his right hand and I saw that he also held a pistol. "Devereux," said he, his handsome face very fierce and grim, "if--this time--you fire before the word, even by one fraction of a second, I shoot you where you stand for the vile murderer you are--by God, I will! Now mark me! The word will be 'One--two--three--fire!' Is this understood?" "Yes, George!" said my uncle; Devereux nodded. "Ready!" said uncle George distinctly. "One--two--three--fire!" A single sharp report and my uncle Jervas, lurching slightly, stared down at his weapon that had merely sparked and, letting it fall, staggered aside to a tree and leaned there. In an instant uncle George was off his horse and together we ran to him. "Aha, George--" he gasped in a horrible, wheezing voice, "it--it was unprimed--lend me--yours!" "O God!" groaned my uncle George. "You're hit, Jervas--are you hurt?" "A little, George--your pistol--quick!" But even as he spoke and despite all his resolution and indomitable will, he seemed about to swoon; I saw his knees slowly bending under him, his stately head sank, and crying out in horror, I reached out to clasp him in my arms. "No, no, Perry!" he gasped. "Don't touch me--yet--I have sufficient strength--dear boy." For a moment he closed his eyes and when next he spoke his voice was strangely loud and clear.