"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."
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?"