versary diminish in a like ratio, so that he does not
appear near so fair a mark as he did a few minutes ago. But, with all
this, there is a quickening of the pulse not unpleasurable--something
like the excitement of the "four to the seven" chance at hazard, when
you are backing the In for a large stake.

I do not believe Mohun felt any thing of this sort. It was not his own
life, but his adversary's death he was playing for; the other was busy,
too, with still darker thoughts and purposes.

"Listen," Guy said in French; "M. de Rosny gives the signal, _un_,
_deux_, _trois_; if either fires before the last is fully pronounced, it
is murder." He looked sharply at Levinge, but the latter seemed
studiously to avoid meeting his eye. Guy felt very uncomfortable and
very savage.

The men stood opposite to one another like black marble statues, neither
showing a speck of color which might serve as a _point de mire_, each
turning only a side-front to his opponent.

De Rosny pronounced the two first words of the signal in a clear,
deliberate voice; the last left his lips almost in a shriek, for, before
it was half syllabled, his principal fired.

Quick as the movement was, it was anticipated; as Levinge's hand
stirred, Mohun made a half-face to the right, and looked his enemy
straight between the eyes. That sudden change of position, or the
consciousness of detection, probably unsettled the practiced aim, for
the ball, that would have drilled Ralph through the heart, only scored a
deep furrow in his side.

No one could have guessed that he was touched; he brought his pistol to
the level just as coolly as he would have done in the shooting-gallery,
and, after the discharge, dropped his hand with measured deliberation.
Before the smoke had curled a yard upward, Horace Levinge sprang into
the air, and, with out-stretched arms, fell crashing down upon the
grass--a bullet through his brain.

They turned him over on his back. It was a ghastly sight; the ball had
penetrated just below the arch of the right eyebrow, and all the lower
features were swollen and distorted with the blow of last night, adding
to the hideous disfigurement.

Is that the face on which the dead man used to spend hours, tending it,
like an ancient coquette, with washes and cosmetics, dreading the
faintest freckle or sunburn which might mar the smoothness of the
delicate skin? No need of the surgeon there. Cover it up quickly. The
mother that bore him, if