"I can't!" Marc gasped. His arms were so tired, and his head so thick with blood, that he didn't care much at this point whether he was about to be shot or not. "Shoot me in cold blood," he said. "To hell with your honor."
The Colonel turned questioningly to his wife. "Should I?" he asked. "You heard what he said about my honor."
Mrs. Hunter Reynolds was hesitant. "Suppose the news got out around back home?" she said. "Folks would say you weren't a real southern gentleman anymore. They'd say you'd been tainted by the North. You'd never be able to hold up a julep in public again."
"For the love of heaven!" Marc moaned. "Either help me or shoot me, only make it snappy."
"Better not risk it," the Colonel decided. "I've got to have a moving target."
The bathroom became quiet with the heavy stillness of impasse. Then there was a ripple from the bathtub as Mrs. Hunter Reynolds brightened.
"I know!" she cried. "If the target can't move, why don't you? Wouldn't it be all right that way? You could rush about a bit and when you've got up your speed turn and shoot him."
The Colonel was silent for a minute, seeming to picture his wife's suggestion in his mind. Finally he nodded. He turned to Marc.
"Is it all right with you, damnyankee?" he asked.
"Anything's all right with me," Marc said hopelessly. "Go ahead. I don't even give a damn anymore."