"Be it so," the stranger replied; "then, you will not give way to me?"
"You would laugh at me if I did," the American said with a grin.
"Then your blood will be on your own head."
"Or on yours."
The two foemen each fell back a pace, and stood on guard, with their cloaks rolled round their left arms. The moon, veiled by clouds, shed no light; the darkness was perfect; midnight struck from the cathedral; the voice of the serenos chanting the hour could be heard in the distance, announcing that all was quiet. There was a moment's hesitation, which the enemies employed in scrutinising each other. Suddenly Nathan uttered a hoarse yell rushed on his enemy, and threw his cloak in his face, to put him on his guard. The stranger parried the stroke dealt him, and replied by another, guarded off with equal dexterity. The two men then seized each other round the waist, and wrestled for some minutes, without uttering a word; at length the stranger rolled on the ground with a heavy sigh; Nathan's knife was buried in his chest. The American rose with a yell of triumph—his enemy was motionless.
"Can I have killed him?" Nathan muttered.
He returned his knife to his vaquera boot, and bent over the wounded man. All at once he started back, for he had recognised his brother Shaw.
"What is to be done now?" he said; but then added carelessly, "Pshaw! all the worse for him. Why did he come across my path?"
And, leaving there the body of the young man, who gave no sign of life—
"Well, Heaven knows, I ought not, and could not have hesitated," he said.