The revolver snapped from the hand of McGurk, whirled in a flashing circle, and clanged on the rocks at his feet.

The bullet of Pierre had struck the barrel and knocked it cleanly from his hand.
It was luck, only luck, that placed that shot, and his own bullet, which had started first, had traveled wild, for there stood Pierre le Rouge, smiling faintly, alert, calm.

For the first time in his life McGurk had missed.

He set his teeth and waited for death.
But that steady voice of Pierre said: "To shoot you would be a pleasure, but there wouldn't be any lasting satisfaction in it.

So there lies your gun at your feet.