"At the word three, gentlemen, you will fire," said the colonel.
The two shots came simultaneously. Abbott had deliberately pointed his into the air. For a moment he stood perfectly still; then, his knees sagged, and he toppled forward on his face.
"Great God!" whispered the colonel; "you must have forgotten the ramrod!"
He, Courtlandt, and the surgeon rushed over to the fallen man. The Barone stood like stone. Suddenly, with a gesture of horror, he flung aside his smoking pistol and ran across the court.
"Gentlemen," he cried, "on my honor, I aimed three feet above his head." He wrung his hands together in anxiety. "It is impossible! It is only that I wished to see if he were a brave man. I shoot well. It is impossible!" he reiterated.
[Illustration: Suddenly he flung aside his smoking pistol.]
Rapidly the cunning hand of the surgeon ran over Abbott's body. He finally shook his head. "Nothing has touched him. His heart gave under. Fainted."
When Abbott came to his senses, he smiled weakly. The Barone was one of the two who helped him to his feet.
"Ah, let me apologize now," said the Barone. "What I did at the ball was wrong, and I should not have lost my temper. I had come to you to apologize then. But I am Italian. It is natural that I should lose my temper," naïvely.
"We're both of us a pair of fools, Barone. There was always some one else. A couple of fools."
"Considering," whispered the colonel in Courtlandt's ear; "considering that neither of them knew they were shooting nothing more dangerous than wads, they're pretty good specimens. Eh, what?"
The Colonel and his guests at luncheon had listened to Courtlandt without sound or movement beyond the occasional rasp of feet shifting under the table. He had begun with the old familiar phrase--"I've got a story."
At the beginning the men had been leaning at various negligent angles,--some with their elbows upon the table, some with their arms thrown across the backs of their chairs. The partridge had been excellent, the wine delicious, the tobacco irreproachable. Burma, the tinkle of bells in the temples, the strange pictures in the bazaars, long journeys over smooth and stormy seas; romance, moving and colorful, which began at Rangoon, had zigzagged around the world, and ended in Berlin.