He almost wished, since he could not stop it, that he might find the duel over.

Now and again a dry sob burst from his overloaded bosom.
It was ten minutes to eight when he came up the slope from the Condamine.

His legs were leaden, but they drove on the machine.

At last he came to the path which leads to the half glade, half rocky amphitheatre, in which the gentry of the principality, and of the rest of the world who chance to be visiting it, settle their affairs of honour, slipped off his machine, and ran down it as fast as his stiff legs would carry him.

A few yards from the end of it he turned aside into the bushes, came to the edge of the glade, saw his father and Count Sigismond facing one another some forty yards away; saw a white handkerchief raised in Lord Crosland's hand, and in spite of himself, his pent-up emotion burst from him in one wild eldritch yell.
It still rang on the quivering air when the handkerchief fluttered to the ground, and the pistols flashed together.
Now to those who enjoy an intimacy with Tinker, an eldritch yell is neither here nor there.