unning to his assistance.
The next instant, however, the wounded man was on his knees, ghastly and
bleeding, and crying for his pistol.

"Give it me!" he gasped--"hold me up! I--I will have his life yet! So,
steady--steady!"

Shuddering, but not for his own danger, Dalrymple stepped calmly back to
his place; while De Caylus, supported by his second, struggled to his
feet and grasped his weapon. For a moment he once more stood upright.
His eye burned; his lips contracted; he seemed to gather up all his
strength for one last effort. Slowly, steadily, surely, he raised his
pistol--then swaying heavily back, fired, and fell again.

"Dead this time, sure enough," said De Simoncourt, bending over him.

"Indeed, I fear so," replied Dalrymple, in a low, grave voice. "Can we
do nothing to help you, Monsieur de Simoncourt?"

"Nothing, thank you. I have a carriage down the road, and must get
further assistance from the village. You had better lose no time in
leaving Paris."

"I suppose not. Good-morning."

"Good-morning,"

So we lifted our hats; gathered up the pistols; hurried out of the wood
and across a field, so avoiding the village; found our cab waiting where
we had left it; and in less than five minutes, were rattling down the
dusty hill again and hurrying towards Paris.

Once in the cab, Dalrymple began hastily pulling off his coat and
waistcoat. I was startled to see his shirt-front stained with blood.

"Heavens!" I exclaimed, "you are not wounded?"

"Very slightly. De Caylus was too good a shot to miss me altogether.
Pshaw! 'tis nothing--a mere graze--not even the bullet left in it!"

"If it had been a little more to the left...." I faltered.

"If he had fired one second sooner, or lived one second longer, he would
have had me through the heart, as sure as there's a heaven above us!"
said Dalrymple.

Then, suddenly changing his tone, he added, laughingly--

"Nonsense, Damon! cheer up, and help me to tear this handkerchief into
bandages. Now's the time to show off your surgery, my little AEsculapius.
By Jupiter, life's a capital thing, after all!"

* * * * *

CHAPTER LI

THE PORTRAIT.

Having seen Dalrymple to his lodgings and dressed his wound, which was,
in truth, but a very slight one, I left him and went home, promising to
return in a few hours, and help him with his packing; for we both agreed
that he must leave Paris that evening, come what might.

It was