"Splendid," cried Farallone, and his eyes blazed with a tremendous love and admiration. "This is something like," he cried. "Two forces face to face—a man and a bullet—love behind them both. Ah, you do love me—don't you?"
"Let us go," said the bride. Her voice shook violently.
"Not you," said Farallone, "while I live."
He took a step toward her, his eyes dancing and smiling. "Do you know," he said, "I don't know if you'll do it or not. By my soul, I don't know. This is living, this is. This is gambling. I'll do nothing violent," he said, "until my hands are touching you. I'll move toward you slowly one slow step at a time—with my arms open—like this—you'll have plenty of chance to shoot me—we'll see if you'll do it."
"We shall see," said the bride.
They faced each other motionless. Then Farallone, his eyes glorious with excitement and passion, his arms open, moved toward her one slow, deliberate step.
"Wait," he cried suddenly. "This is too good for them." He jerked his thumb toward the groom and me. "This is a sight for gods—not jackasses. Go down to the river," he said to us. "If you hear a shot come back. If you hear a scream—then as you value your miserable hides—get!"
We did not move.
The bride, her voice tense and high-pitched, turned to us.