French language. "Assassin! Assassin! where are you?" Was it a woman?
or was it a boy? We heard nothing more. The effect upon Romayne was
terrible to see. He who had calmly confronted the weapon lifted to kill
him, shuddered dumbly like a terror-stricken animal. I put my arm round
him, and hurried him away from the place.

We waited at the hotel until our French friend joined us. After a brief
interval he appeared, announcing that the surgeon would follow him.

The duel had ended fatally. The chance course of the bullet, urged by
Romayne's unpracticed hand, had struck the General's son just above
the right nostril--had penetrated to the back of his neck--and had
communicated a fatal shock to the spinal marrow. He was a dead man
before they could take him back to his father's house.

So far, our fears were confirmed. But there was something else to tell,
for which our worst presentiments had not prepared us.

A younger brother of the fallen man (a boy of thirteen years old) had
secretly followed the dueling party, on their way from his father's
house--had hidden himself--and had seen the dreadful end. The seconds
only knew of it when he burst out of his place of concealment, and fell
on his knees by his dying brother's side. His were the frightful cries
which we had heard from invisible lips. The slayer of his brother
was the "assassin" whom he had vainly tried to discover through the
fathomless obscurity of the mist.

We both looked at Romayne. He silently looked back at us, like a man
turned to stone. I tried to reason with him.