Ann held the pistol loosely at her side, and looked toward Jacques, across the abyss of sixty feet. With frozen fingers, Jacques accepted the other pistol from his squire, and knew that he was out beyond the point of no returning. But he did not, could not, know what he would do once the signal for the execution was given. "Do not fail me again," Ann had pleaded. But what had she meant? Even at this final moment her smile was as enigmatic as ever. The page and the squire retreated to their stations at the side of the arena, this time moving hastily. The Bailiff raised his black staff and pennant, held it poised until the Chief Justice nodded, then lowered it with a flourish. A trumpet sounded one high, clear note. The signal had been given. Jacques remained motionless, waiting for a sign from Ann. But she, too, waited, her chin slightly lifted. What was she waiting for? What did she expect from him? In the stands, the breathing of a hundred thousand people was a rasping sound. And then Ann moved, so quickly that the surprise was complete. Her pistol flashed up, fired while still in its arc. The bullet blasted the air beside Jacques' ear, so close that for a fraction of a second he thought he had been hit. Ann's voice drifted across to him, across the stunned silence, and it contained both a taunt and a plea: "I won't miss next time, Jacques!" And he knew she would not. He had seen too many guns fired not to recognize technique. If she had learned to shoot that well, there was no doubt she could have hit him the first time. Jacques still couldn't fathom her motive, but there was no longer any chance to consider it. His conscious mind wanted to let her fire again, to put an end to this terrible dream. But the instinct of self-preservation was too strong; the lessons at the FBIT academy had been taught too well. Numbness went out of him, and he watched her eyes for the telltale flicker that would give a split-second warning of her next move. The warning came, and he was ahead of it. His shot struck Ann high on the right shoulder. Her second and last bullet ploughed into the dust midway between them. She twisted around from the force of the impact, and half slipped, half fell from the pedestal. But she kept herself erect, bracing against the pedestal with her left hand. A red blotch was spreading from her shoulder to her breast and down her side. There was shock and pain in her eyes, but the half-smile was still on her lips. "Une!" shouted the crowd, counting his first shot. Jacques no longer needed a will of his own. The momentum of a thousand deaths swept him along, overpowering everything else. "Deux!" screamed the hundred thousand voices. "Deux! Deux!"