"
"S-such a c-cursed--drowsy--" Barrymaine sank down upon his side,
rolled over upon his back, threw wide his arms, and so lay,
breathing stertorously.
Then Mr. Chichester smiled, and coming beside him, looked down upon
his helpless form and flushed face and, smiling still, spoke in his
soft, gentle voice:
"Are you asleep, Ronald?" he inquired, and stirred Barrymaine
lightly with his foot, but, feeling him so helpless, the stirring
foot grew slowly more vicious. "Oh Ronald," he murmured, "what a
fool you are! what a drunken, sottish fool you are. So you'd give
him a chance, would you? Ah, but you mustn't, Ronald, you shan't,
for your sake and my sake. My hand is steadier than yours, so sleep,
my dear Ronald, and wake to find that you have rid us of our good,
young Samaritan--once and for all, and then--hey for Cleone, and no
more dread of the Future. Sleep on, you swinish sot!"
Mr. Chichester's voice was as soft as ever, but, as he turned away,
the sleeping youth started and groaned beneath the sudden movement
of that vicious foot.
And now Mr. Chichester stooped, and taking the pistols, one by one,
examined flint and priming with attentive eye, which done, he
crossed to a darkened window and, bursting open the rotting shutter,
knelt and levelled one of the weapons, steadying his wrist upon the
sill; then, nodding as though satisfied, he laid the pistols upon
the floor within easy reach, and drew out his watch.
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