This time it was a duel with the whole blade, the most terrible of all. With extraordinary politeness and coolness the landlord had a large ring formed in the middle of the room, where the two adversaries stationed themselves, about six paces from each other at the most.
A deep silence hung over the room, a moment previously so full of life and disturbance; every one anxiously awaited the dénouement of the terrible drama that was preparing. Fray Ambrosio alone had not quitted his seat or made a sign.
The two men rolled their zarapés round their left arm, planted themselves firmly on their outstretched legs, bent their bodies slightly forward and gently placing the point of the knife blade on the arm rounded in front of the chest, they waited, fixed on each other flashing glances. A few seconds elapsed, during which the adversaries remained perfectly motionless: all hearts were contracted, all bosoms heaving.
Worthy of Callot's pencil was the scene offered by these men, with their weather-stained faces and harsh features, and their clothes in rags, forming a circle round two combatants ready to kill each other in this mean room, slightly illumined by a smoky lamp, which flashed upon the blue blades of the knives, and in the shadow, almost disappearing in his black gown, the monk, with his implacable glance and mocking smile, who, like a tiger thirsting for blood, awaited the hour to pounce on his prey.
Suddenly, by a spontaneous movement rapid as lightning, the adversaries rushed on each other, uttering a yell of fury. The blades flashed, there was a clashing of steel, and both fell back again. Joaquin and Tomaso had both dealt the same stroke, called, in the slang of the country, the "blow of the brave man." Each had his face slashed from top to bottom with a gaping wound.
The spectators frenziedly applauded this magnificent opening scene: the jaguars had scented blood, and were mad.
"What a glorious fight!" they exclaimed with admiration.
In the meanwhile the two combatants, rendered hideous by the blood that streamed from their wounds and stained their faces, were again watching for the moment to leap on one another. Suddenly they broke ground; but this time it was no skirmish, but the real fight, atrocious and merciless. The two men seized each other round the waist, and entwined like serpents, they twisted about, trying to stab each other, and exciting themselves to the struggle by cries of rage and triumph. The enthusiasm of the spectators was at its height: they laughed, clapped hands, and uttered inarticulate howls as they urged the fighters not to loose their hold.
At length the enemies rolled on the ground still enclasped. For some seconds the combat continued on the ground, and it was impossible to distinguish who was the conqueror. All at once one of them, who no longer had a human form, and whose body was as red as an Indian's, bounded to his feet brandishing his knife. It was Joaquin.
His brother rushed toward him to congratulate him on his victory, but all at once the gambusino tottered and fainted. Tomaso did not rise again: he remained motionless, stretched out on the uneven floor of the mesón. He was stark dead.