Then a bullet. Then a wad rammed home. Then the cap. It was
done at lightning speed. Murder, red, horrible murder blazed in his
soul. Damn him! He would kill him. He started into the middle of the
room, just as they walked away, and he sprang to the door and levelled
the pistol.
Then reaction came. No. Not like a dog. He couldn't shoot his brother
like a dog. His arm fell helplessly at his side. He turned back again
into the room, staggering and knocking himself against the cases by the
walls, like a drunken man. The sweat rolled down his face. He put the
pistol beside the other on the table. For some moments he stood a
hulking statue, shaken as though stricken with earthquake, white-faced,
white-lipped, staring, with crossed, blue eyes, at nothing. At last he
recovered power of motion, drank another whiskey, and replaced bottle,
syphon, and glass in the cupboard.
He found himself suddenly clear-headed, able to think. He was not in
the least degree drunk. To test himself he took up a sword from the
table, and, getting the right spot, balanced it on his finger.
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