On his one hand Duchemin saw a woman in mourning clasping to her bosom
a terrified young girl, the author of the screams; on the other, three
men close-locked in grimmest combat, one defending himself against two
with indifferent success; while in between stood a third woman with her
back to and perilously near the chasm, shrinking from the threat of a
pistol in the hands of the fourth man.
This last was the one nearest Duchemin, who was upon him so suddenly
that it would be difficult to say which was the more surprised when
Duchemin's stick struck down the pistol hand of the other with such
force as must have broken his wrist. The weapon fell, he uttered an
oath as he swung round, clutching the maimed member; and then, seeing
his assailant for the first time, he swooped down to recover the weapon
so swiftly that it was in his left hand and spitting vicious tongues of
orange flame before Duchemin was able to get in a second blow.
But there was the abrupt end of that passage. Smitten cruelly between
the eyes, the fellow grunted thickly and went over backwards like a
bundle of rags, head and shoulders jutting out over the brink of the
precipice so far that, though his body checked perceptibly as it struck
the ground, his own weight carried him on, he shot out into space and
vanished as though some unseen hand had lifted up from these dark
depths and plucked him down to annihilation.
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