"Drop that sword!"
The repetition seemed to close the opportunity for delay.
Farnsworth was on his guard in a twinkling. He set his jaw and
uttered an ugly oath; then quick as lightning he struck sidewise
at the pistol with his blade. It was a move which might have taken
a less alert person than Alice unawares; but her training in
sword-play was ready in her wrist and hand. An involuntary turn,
the slightest imaginable, set the heavy barrel of her weapon
strongly against the blow, partly stopping it, and then the gaping
muzzle spat its load of balls and slugs with a bellow that awoke
the drowsy old village.
Farnsworth staggered backward, letting fall his sword. There was a
rent in the clothing of his left shoulder. He reeled; the blood
spun out; but he did not fall, although he grew white.
Alice stood gazing at him with a look on her face he would never
forget. It was a look that changed by wonderful swift gradations
from terrible hate to something like sweet pity. The instant she
saw him hurt and bleeding, his countenance relaxing and pale, her
heart failed her. She took a step toward him, her hand opened, and
with a thud the heavy old pistol fell upon the ground beside her.
Father Beret sprang nimbly to sustain Farnsworth, snatching up the
pistol as he passed around Alice.
"You are hurt, my son," he gently said, "let me help you.
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