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!’

Before the last word was half pronounced, Gavrolles had raised his weapon, covered his opponent with lightning rapidity, and fired.

At the very moment he was about to raise his pistol in the air, Forster felt his arm suddenly grow powerless, while the weapon dropped from his hand.

Sutherland and the little surgeon simultaneously uttered an exclamation. The former reached his friend just in time to catch him in his arms.

‘He is wounded!’ he cried. ‘I call you all to witness, it is a murder, not a duel.’

Swift as thought, the surgeon placed Forster on the ground, stripped off his coat, and cutting away a portion of his shirt, which was saturated with blood, disclosed an ugly wound in the shoulder. Forster, who had scarcely lost consciousness, opened his eyes with a twinge of pain, as the surgeon began to probe the wound for the bullet. It was the work of a moment; for the lead, after striking and partially fracturing the bone, had embedded itself in the fleshy part of the arm.

‘It is not so bad as I feared,’ said the surgeon; ‘but it was not fairly done.’

‘It was most foully done,’ cried Sutherland, springing up and facing Gavrolles, who had approached and stood very pale, looking on. ‘Monsieur Gavrolles, it is now my turn. You shall fight me!’

‘I shall do nothing of the kind,’ returned the Frenchman, turning on his heel.

‘But you shall!’ Sutherland ............