"For Heaven's sake," whispered the duke, as he withdrew from the spot,
"square your body a little more to your left and remember your exact
level. Borodaile is much shorter than you."

There was a brief, dread pause: the signal was given; Borodaile fired;
his ball pierced Clarence's side; the wounded man staggered one step,
but fell not. He raised his pistol; the duke bent eagerly forward; an
expression of disappointment and surprise passed his lips; Clarence
had fired in the air. The next moment Linden felt a deadly sickness
come over him; he fell into the arms of the surgeon. Borodaile,
touched by a forbearance which he had so little right to expect,
hastened to the spot. He leaned over his adversary in greater remorse
and pity than he would have readily confessed to himself. Clarence
unclosed his eyes; they dwelt for one moment upon the subdued and
earnest countenance of Borodaile.

"Thank God," he said faintly, "that you were not the victim," and with
those words he fell back insensible. They carried him to his
lodgings. His wound was accurately examined. Though not mortal, it
was of a dangerous nature; and the surgeons ended a very painful
operation by promising a very lingering recovery.

What a charming satisfaction for being insulted!




CHAPTER XLVI.