"Ready!" said uncle George distinctly. "One--two--three--fire!"
A single sharp report and my uncle Jervas, lurching slightly, stared
down at his weapon that had merely sparked and, letting it fall,
staggered aside to a tree and leaned there.
In an instant uncle George was off his horse and together we ran to
him.
"Aha, George--" he gasped in a horrible, wheezing voice, "it--it was
unprimed--lend me--yours!"
"O God!" groaned my uncle George. "You're hit, Jervas--are you hurt?"
"A little, George--your pistol--quick!"
But even as he spoke and despite all his resolution and indomitable
will, he seemed about to swoon; I saw his knees slowly bending under
him, his stately head sank, and crying out in horror, I reached out to
clasp him in my arms.
"No, no, Perry!" he gasped. "Don't touch me--yet--I have sufficient
strength--dear boy." For a moment he closed his eyes and when next he
spoke his voice was strangely loud and clear.
"Devereux, if ever you prayed--pray now!" Yet as he uttered these
words, he sank to his knees and leaned feebly against the tree, his
pallid face suddenly contorted by a dreadful spasm, so that I could
scarcely bear to look. Then, sweating with the agonising effort,
slowly--slowly--he raised his arm, dwelt a moment on his aim, and
fired; the smoking weapon dropped from his lax fingers and, swaying
sideways, he sank down, his face among the grass.
I remember my uncle George running to aid me lift this heavy head; and
glancing from these dreadfully pallid features, the pitiful
helplessness of this once strong form, I saw a group of pale-faced men
who knelt and crouched above a twisted thing that had once answered to
the name of Devereux.
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