This was intolerable.
“You mean to fight, or you don’t, M. le Baron,” said I. “Which is it?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Your master is well served,” he said with a sneer.
His seconds looked bewildered: Vooght bit his nails, and Dumergue swore furiously, and, coming near me, whispered in my ear:
“Shoot straight! Stop his cursed mouth for him!”
I had not the least intention of killing the baron, if I could avoid it without being killed myself; but I thought a slight lesson would improve his manners, and, when the word came, I fired with a careful aim. He evidently meant mischief, for I heard his ball whiz past my ear; I missed him clean, being much out of practice, and, I dare say, rather nervous. I pulled myself together for the second shot, for I saw that my opponent was not to be trifled with, and I should not have been the least surprised to find myself in paradise the next moment. On the word I fired; the baron fell back with a cry, and simultaneously I felt a tingle in my left hand, and the unmistakable warm ooze of blood. The witnesses ran to my opponent, and raised his head. Dumergue turned round to me:
“Are you hurt?”
“A scratch,” I answered, for I found the ball had run up my arm, merely grazing me in its passage.