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"I will do it if you are agreed, gentlemen" he heard Masters say.

The grey sky was featureless; for this last look on the world he might as well have been blindfolded. Masters raised his voice again.

"I will say 'one, two, three, fire'" he announced "with those intervals. At the last word, gentlemen, you can fire as you will. Are you ready?"

"Yes" came Simpson's voice, almost in Hornblower's ear, it seemed.

"Yes" said Hornblower. He could hear the strain in his own voice.

"One" said Masters, and Hornblower felt at that moment the muzzle of Simpson's pistol against his left ribs, and he raised his own.

It was in that second that he decided he could not kill Simpson even if it were in his power, and he went on lifting his pistol, forcing himself to look to see that it was pressed against the point of Simpson's shoulder. A slight wound would suffice.

"Two" said Masters. "Three. Fire!"

Hornblower pulled his trigger. There was a click and a spun of smoke from the lock of his pistol. The priming had gone off but no more--his was the unloaded weapon, and he knew what it was to die. A tenth of a second later there was a click and spurt of smoke from Simpson's pistol against his heart. Stiff and still they both stood, slow to realise what had happened.