“But let it be à l’outrance. I want either to kill you or to be killed.”
“If she were only out of the way, you would love me again.”
“Amen to that, dear Miguel!”
“Yet we are to fight?”
“To the death, my brother, my comrade! Such is the madness of passion.”
The paralyzed landlord found breath for the first time to intervene.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen! for God’s sake! consider my reputation!”
Miguel, starting away, and leaving Nicanor with his back to the closet, produced and pointed his weapon at the trembling creature. These South Americans were a strange compound of sweetness and ferocity.
“If you interfere,” he said, “I will shoot you instead. Now, Nicanor, we fire at discretion, one shot to each.”
The bang of Nicanor’s pistol shattered the emptiness. Miguel was down on the floor. Nicanor cast away his reeking weapon, and, running to his friend, raised his body in his arms. The door of the closet opened, and Suzanne, radiant and gloating, stood in the entry. “That was a good shot, Nicanor,” said Miguel, smiling weakly. “You are better at men than bottles.”