That was the only sign.
"Three!"
The pistols exploded simultaneously. The right arm of the Prince swung
back violently, the smoking pistol flying from his hand. Suddenly one
of the horses gave a snort of pain and terror, and bolted down the
road. No attention was given to the horse. The others were watching
Hillars. He stood perfectly motionless. All at once the pistol fell
from his hand; then both hands flew instinctively to his breast. There
was an expression of surprise on his face. His eyes closed, his knees
bent forward, and he sank into the road a huddled heap. The Prince
shrugged, a sigh of relief fell from the Count's half-parted lips,
while the innkeeper ran toward the fallen man.
"Are you hurt, Prince?" asked the Count.
"The damned fool has blown off my elbow!" was the answer. "Bind it up
with your handkerchief, and help me on with my coat. There is nothing
more to do; if he is not dead he soon will be, so it's all the same."
When the Prince's arm was sufficiently bandaged so as to stop the flow
of blood, the Count assisted him to mount, jumped on his own horse, and
the two cantered off, leaving the innkeeper, Hillars' head propped up
on his knee, staring after them with a dull rage in his faded blue
eyes.
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