ou've had the first shot. It's my turn now."

Darke does not remain inactive, but leaps--forth from his lurking-place,
to obtain more freedom for his arms. The buttresses hinder him from
having elbow room. He also elevates his gun; but, perceiving it will be
too late, instead of taking aim, he lowers the piece again, and dodges
behind the tree.

The movement, quick and subtle, as a squirrel's bound, saves him.
Clancy fires without effect. His ball but pierces through the skirt of
Darke's coat, without touching his body.

With a wild shout of triumph, the latter advances upon his adversary,
whose gun is now empty. His own, a double-barrel, has a bullet still
undischarged. Deliberately bringing the piece to his shoulder, and
covering the victim he is now sure of, he says derisively,--

"What a devilish poor shot you've made, Mister Charlie Clancy! A sorry
marksman--to miss a man scarce six feet from the muzzle of your gun! I
shan't miss you. Turn about's fair play. I've had the first, and I'll
have the last. Dog! take your _death shot_!"

While delivering the dread speech, his finger presses the trigger; the
crack comes, with the flash and fiery jet.

For some seconds Clancy is invisible, the sulphurous smoke forming a
nimbus around him. When it ascends, he is seen prostrate upon the
earth; the blood gushing from a wound in his breast, and spurting over
his waistcoat.

He appears writhing in his death agony.

And evidently thinks so himself, from his words spoken in slow, choking
utterance,--

"Richard Darke--you have killed--murdered me!"

"I meant to do it," is the unpitying response.

"O Heavens! You horrid wretch! Why--why--"

"Bah! what are you blubbering about? You know why. If not, I shall
tell you--_Helen Armstrong_, After all, it isn't jealousy that's made me
kill you; only your impudence, to suppose you had a chance with her.
You hadn't; she never cared a straw for you. Perhaps, before dying, it
may be some consolation for you to know she didn't. I've got the proof.
Since it isn't likely you'll ever see herself again, it may give you a
pleasure to look at her portrait. Here it is! The sweet girl sent it
me this very morning, with her autograph attached, as you see. A
capital likeness, isn't it?"

The inhuman wretch stooping down, holds the photograph before the eyes
of the dying man, gradually growing dim.

But only death could hinder them from turning towards that sun-paint