“He may be mistaken,” said the Captain, half sneeringly. “My friend is ‘de la premiere force.’”
“That must be something impudent, from your looks, Mr. Trevanion. Isn’t it a thousand pities I can’t speak French?”
“What say you, then, to twelve paces? Fire together, and two shots each, if the first fire be inconclusive,” said Trevanion.
“And if necessary,” added the Frenchman, carelessly, “conclude with these”—touching the swords with his foot as he spoke.
“The choice of the weapon lies with us, I opine,” replied Trevanion. “We have already named pistols, and by them we shall decide this matter.”
It was at length, after innumerable objections, agreed upon that we should be placed back to back, and at a word given each walk forward to a certain distance marked out by a stone, where we were to halt, and at the signal, “une,” “deux,” turn round and fire.
This, which is essentially a French invention in duelling, was perfectly new to me, but by no means to Trevanion, who was fully aware of the immense consequence of not giving even a momentary opportunity for aim to my antagonist; and in this mode of firing the most practised and deadly shot is liable to err—particularly if the signal be given quickly.
While Trevanion and the Captain were measuring out the ground, a little circumstance which was enacted near me was certainly not over calculated to strengthen my nerve. The stranger who had led us to the ground had begun to examine the pistols, and finding that one of them was loaded, turned towards my adversary, saying, “De Haultpenne, you have forgotten to draw the charge. Come let us see what vein you are in.” At the same time, drawing off his large cavalry glove, he handed the pistol to his friend.
“A double Napoleon you don’t hit the thumb.”
“Done,” said the other, adjusting the weapon in his hand.