Roland counted the twelve strokes, one after the other.

The last hung, quivering upon the air, like a bird with iron wings, then slowly expired, sad and mournful.

Just then the young man, thought he heard a moan.

He listened in the direction whence it came.

Again he heard it, this time nearer at hand.
He rose, his hands resting upon the table, the butt-end of a pistol beneath each palm.