‘Have you ever practised at a mark?’ Forster-shook his head. ‘I have never fired a pistol in my life.’ ‘Then it is an ugly affair. Let me entreat you, accept me as your substitute--I will force them to consent----’ ‘No,’ answered Forster with determination. ‘It is my place, not yours. I shall either avenge my poor martyred wife or follow her to the grave.’ CHAPTER XLIII.--ON BOULOGNE SANDS. In the early grey of the next morning, Forster and Sutherland stood waiting at the place appointed, a solitary spot just above high water mark. Far as the eye could see nothing was visible but the cold sea on the one hand, and the long, flat stretch of a great marsh, blackened here and there by leafless tree, upon the other. ‘They are late,’ said Forster impatiently. ‘If he should take flight after all.’ ‘I think he will come. But you are shaking like a leaf.’ ‘Do you think I am afraid?’ asked Forster with a strange smile. Sutherland knew better, and shook his head sadly. But Forster’s agitation, caused mainly by the mental strain of the last few days, filled him with deep concern. A few minutes later three figures emerged on the open space of sand. These were Gavrolles, the Chevalier, his second, carrying a case of duelling pistols, and a little baldheaded man, carrying another case filled with surgical instruments. The Chevalier led Sutherland apart. ‘These are the weapons. Do they meet with your approbation?’ Sutherland examined the pistols, and nodded. ‘Will you load them, monsieur, or shall I?’ asked the Chevalier, still politely. Sutherland undertook the operation, while the Chevalier watched him keenly. The pistols loaded, Gavrolles took one, Forster the other, and they moved to their places. It was arranged that the Chevalier and Sutherland should simultaneously count ten, and then utter the word “Fire,” which should be the signal for the duellists to discharge their weapons. Sutherland placed his man in position. So little did Forster know of how to protect himself, so clumsy was his exposure of his vital parts, that the surgeon in attendance uttered an exclamation. ‘Mon Dieu!’ he cried. ‘It is not like a duel--but an assassination!’ Trembling with fear for Forster, who seemed quite helpless, Sutherland made one last appeal for him to withdraw, but the appeal was altogether useless. ‘Well, then, since it must be, cover your man well, and aim low. The moment the word is given, raise your aim and fire; don’t lose an instant, or he will anticipate you. You understand?’ ‘Yes.’ The seconds moved away, while Gavrolles and Forster faced each other. On the face of the Frenchman there was a curious blending of self-confidence, malignity, and nervous anticipation. The sun rose coldly over the damp sands, but the air was still dank and cold, and the seconds, in slow monotonous voices, began simultaneously to count. One--two--three--four--five--six--seven--eight--nine--ten--‘fire!’