his damp forehead, for he felt faint with dread. But the task had to be
accomplished. He unscrewed the ramrod and picked out the wad, a piece
of white paper which dropped on the floor. From the barrel held downward
a bullet dropped with a dead, fateful thud on the floor. More paper
wad--a slithering shower of gunpowder. He put the pistol down, and took
up the one he himself had used from the chair where he had thrown it. It
was unloaded. His eye fell on the bits of white paper. He picked them up
and unfolded them. The daily newspaper lay by the stove, with the corner
torn accusingly.

Then he understood. He sank into a chair, paralysed with horror. It was
Dick's pistol that was loaded. Dick had meant to murder him. By the
grace of God the pistol had missed fire. But Dick, his own brother, had
meant to murder him. An hour later he walked out of the room, the case
of pistols under his arm, with the drawn face of an old man.

It was not until Dick had stumbled five or six miles through the
drenching downpour that the thought reached his dulled brain that he had
left the pistols loose for anyone to examine. The thought was like a
great stone hitting him on the side of the head. He turned and began to
run homewards, like a hunted man in desperate flight.




CHAPTER V

A CRISIS