Barrymaine fought desperately. Barnabas felt his coat rip and tear,
but he maintained his grip upon his opponent's pistol hand, yet
twice the muzzle of the weapon covered him, and twice he eluded it
before Barrymaine could fire. Therefore, seeing Barrymaine's
intention, reading his deadly purpose in vicious mouth and dilated
nostril, Barnabas loosed one hand, drew back his arm, and
smote--swift and hard. Barrymaine uttered a cry that seemed to
Barnabas to find an echo far off, flung out his arms and, staggering,
fell.
Then Barnabas picked up the pistol and, standing over Barrymaine,
spoke.
"I--had to--do it!" he panted. "Did I--hurt you much?"
But Ronald Barrymaine lay very white and still, and, stooping,
Barnabas saw that he had struck much harder than he had meant, and
that Barrymaine's mouth was cut and bleeding.
Now at this moment, even as he sank on his knees, Barnabas again
heard a cry, but nearer now and with the rustle of flying draperies,
and, glancing up, saw Cleone running towards them.
"Cleone!" he cried, and sprang to his feet.
"You--struck him!" she panted.
"I--yes, I--had to! But indeed he isn't much hurt--" But Cleone was
down upon her knees, had lifted Barrymaine's head to her bosom and
was wiping the blood from his pale face with her handkerchief.
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