'I did not know that Mr. Ham was an Irishman,' chimed in Harland.

'One!'

'Oh!' groaned the respectable Mr. Ham.

'Two--three!' Simultaneously with the word 'three' there was a
pistol shot. The gentlemanly Mr. Ham had fired before his opponent
turned. Before he could see the result of his shot, Gray who had
turned promptly at the word, fired; and with a frightful yell Mr. Ham
fell to the earth, and lay there. The doctor ran up, and putting the
fingers of his left hand upon the fellow's wrist, with the other made
search for the wound.

'Here it is; you have shot him in the left side.'

'Do you think it is fatal?' Roland asked composedly.

'I cannot say; but I really have little hope otherwise.' It was hard
to weigh the value of this statement. It was decidedly an equivocal
one.

'I would most certainly advise you to get out of the way, Mr. Gray.
He seems to have no pulse. By the way, are you hit?'

'Yes.'

'Good God, where?' He pointed to his breast; and to the horror of
Harland blood was oozing through his waistcoat.