"I have always tried to despise death, and have always succeeded in despising you. I shall bow to neither." "We shall see," said Molara, grinding his teeth. "I shall count five,--one!" There was a pause. Savrola looked at the pistol barrel, a black spot encircled by a ring of bright steel; all the rest of the picture was a blank. "Two!" counted the President. So he was to die,--flash off this earth when that black spot burst into flame. He anticipated the blow full in his face; and beyond he saw nothing,--annihilation,--black, black night. "Three!" He could just see the rifling of the barrel; the lands showed faintly. That was a wonderful invention--to make the bullet spin as it travelled. He imagined it churning his brain with hideous energy. He tried to think, to take one grip of his philosophy or faith before the plunge; but his physical sensations were too violent. To the tips of his fingers he tingled, as the blood surged through his veins; the palms of his hands felt hot. "Four!" Lucile sprang up, and with a cry threw herself in front of the President "Wait, wait!" she cried. "Have mercy!" Molara met her look, and in those eyes read more than terror. Then at last he understood; he started as though he had caught hold of red-hot iron. "My God! it's true!" he gasped. "Strumpet!" he cried, as he pushed her from him, striking her with the back of his left hand in the mouth. She shrank into the far corner of the room. He saw it all now. Hoist with his own petard he had lost everything. Wild fury took hold of him and shook him till his throat rattled and ached. She had deserted him; power was slipping from his grasp; his rival, his enemy, the man he hated with all his soul was everywhere triumphant. He had walked into the trap only to steal the bait; but he should not escape. There was a limit to prudence and to the love of life. His plans, his hopes, the roar of an avenging crowd, all faded from his mind. Death should wipe out the long score that stood between them, death which settled all,--now on the instant. But he had been a soldier, and was ever a practical man in the detail of life. He lowered the pistol and deliberately cocked it; single action would make certainty more sure; then he took good aim. Savrola, seeing that the moment was upon him, lowered his head and sprang forward. The President fired. But Miguel's quick intelligence had appreciated the changed situation, and he remembered that there were consequences. He saw that the trick had become deadly earnest, and he did not forget the mob. He struck the pistol up, and the bullet, by a very little, flew high.