"Great God!" whispered the colonel; "you must have forgotten the ramrod!"

He, Courtlandt, and the surgeon rushed over to the fallen man. The Barone

stood like stone. Suddenly, with a gesture of horror, he flung aside his

smoking pistol and ran across the court.

"Gentlemen," he cried, "on my honor, I aimed three feet above his head."

He wrung his hands together in anxiety. "It is impossible! It is only that

I wished to see if he were a brave man. I shoot well. It is impossible!"

he reiterated.

Rapidly the cunning hand of the surgeon ran over Abbott's body. He finally

shook his head. "Nothing has touched him. His heart gave under. Fainted."

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When Abbott came to his senses, he smiled weakly. The Barone was one of

the two who helped him to his feet.

"I feel like a fool," he said.

"Ah, let me apologize now," said the Barone. "What I did at the ball was

wrong, and I should not have lost my temper. I had come to you to

apologize then. But I am Italian. It is natural that I should lose my

temper," naïvely.

"We're both of us a pair of fools, Barone. There was always some one else.

A couple of fools."

"Yes," admitted the Barone eagerly.

"Considering," whispered the colonel in Courtlandt's ear; "considering

that neither of them knew they were shooting nothing more dangerous than

wads, they're pretty good specimens. Eh, what?"




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