Was it these thoughts which we have just expressed that filled
Roland's mind and plunged him into that melancholy revery.

Probably not; the fact is, for an instant he seemed to have forgotten
seconds, duel, adversary, lost as he was in contemplation of this
magnificent spectacle. M. de Barjols' voice aroused him from
this poetical stupor.

"When you are ready, sir," said he, "I am."

Roland started.

"Pardon my keeping you waiting, sir," said he. "You should not
have considered me, I am so absent-minded. I am ready now."

Then, a smile on his lips, his hair lifted by the evening breeze,
unconcerned as if this were an ordinary promenade, while his
opponent, on the contrary, took all the precaution usual in such
a case, Roland advanced straight toward M. de Barjols.

Sir John's face, despite his ordinary impassibility, betrayed
a profound anxiety. The distance between the opponents lessened
rapidly. M. de Barjols halted first, took aim, and fired when
Roland was but ten paces from him.

The ball clipped one of Roland's curls, but did not touch him.
The young man turned toward his second:

"Well," said he, "what did I tell you?"