A few yards from the end of it he turned aside
into the bushes, came to the edge of the glade, saw his father and
Count Sigismond facing one another some forty yards away; saw a white
handkerchief raised in Lord Crosland's hand, and in spite of himself,
his pent-up emotion burst from him in one wild eldritch yell.
It still rang on the quivering air when the handkerchief fluttered to
the ground, and the pistols flashed together.
Now to those who enjoy an intimacy with Tinker, an eldritch yell is
neither here nor there. Piercing as this one was, it barely reached
Sir Tancred's consciousness; but it smote sharply on Count Sigismond's
tense nerves, and deflected the barrel of his pistol just so much as
sent the bullet zip past Sir Tancred's ear, as he received Sir
Tancred's bullet in his elbow, and started to traverse the glade in a
series of violent but ungainly leaps, uttering squeal on squeal.
Tinker turned and bolted, sobbing, gasping, and choking in the
revulsion from his hopeless dread. He seized his bicycle, ran it along
the road some fifty yards, turned in among the bushes, flung himself
down, and sobbed and cried.
There was confusion on the scene of the duel. Count Sigismond's
seconds had to chase him, catch him, and hold him while the doctor
dressed his wound.
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