in three hundred yards of Miste now, and Alphonse was
somewhere behind me, I could not pause to note how far. We were near
the summit, and the world seemed to contain but three men. My breath
was short, and there was clockwork going in my head.

Then at length Miste turned. He took all in at a glance, probably
recognising us. At all events he had no doubt of our business there;
for he hurried on, and I could see his hand at his jacket pocket.
Still I gained on him.

"Beer against absinthe," I remember thinking.

There was an unbroken snow-field ahead of us, the sheer side of a
mountain with the footpath cut across it--a strip of blue shadow.

After ten minutes of rapid climbing, Miste turned at length, and
waited for me. He had a cool head; for he carefully buttoned his coat
and stood sideways, presenting as small a target as possible.

He raised his revolver and covered me.

"He won't fire yet," thought I, forty yards below him, and I advanced
quickly.

He stood covering me for a few seconds, and then lowered his arm and
waited for me. In such an atmosphere we could have spoken in ordinary
tones, but we had nothing to say. Monsieur Miste and I understood each
other without need of words.

"Fire, you fool!" cried Giraud behind me--nearer than I had suspected.

I was within twenty yards of Miste now; the man had a narrow, white
face, and was clean shaven. I saw it only for a moment, for the
revolver came up again.

"He is probably a bad shot, and will miss first time," I thought
quickly, as I crept upward. The slope was steep at this point.

I saw the muzzle of the revolver quiver--a sign, no doubt, that he was
bearing on the trigger. Then there was a flash, and the report, as it
seemed, of a cannon. I staggered back, and dropped on one knee. Miste
had hit me in the shoulder. I felt the warm blood running down within
my clothes, and had a queer sensation of having fallen from a great
height.

"I'll kill him!--I'll kill him!" I found myself repeating in a silly
way, as I got to my feet again.

No sooner was I up than Miste fired again, and I heard the bullet
whistle past my ear. At this I whipped out Giraud's revolver, for I
thought the next shot would kill me. The scoundrel let me have it a
third time, and tore a piece out of my cheek; the pain of it was
damnable. I now stood still and took a careful sight, remembering, in
a dull way, to fire low. I aimed at his knees. Monsieur Charles Miste
leapt two fe