At the word Dirke had drawn his right hand from his pocket; the barrel of a pistol gleamed white between them.
The Frenchman recoiled. His face was not pleasant to look upon, yet his antagonist would have been sorry to lose the sight of it.
Dirke stood, tall and slim and commanding, his face set in the accustomed lines. No emotion whatever was to be seen there, not even contempt for the man who shrank from sure death in such a cause. For fully twenty seconds they faced each other in the glaring light of the saloon, pent up passion visible in the one, invisible in the other. In Dirke's face, and bearing, however, devoid as it was of any emotion, one quality was but the more recognizable for that, and the count knew that the man before him was available as an antagonist.
"Monsieur," he said, with strong self-control, "it is possible that you do not understand—that you are not aware—that—Monsieur! The ring which you are pleased to wear so—so—conspicuously is the property of—The ring, Monsieur, is sacred to me!"
"Sacred!" Dirke repeated. "Sacred!" The word was an arraignment, not to be overlooked.
