“Agreed!” cried Kmita. “Let it be three. Zend, get the pistols!”
All began to shout louder and louder, and bargain among themselves; meanwhile Zend went to the antechamber, and soon returned with pistols, a pouch of bullets, and a horn with powder.
Ranitski grasped for a pistol. “Is it loaded?” asked he.
“Loaded.”
“For three, four, five ducats!” blustered Kmita, drunk.
“Quiet! you will miss, you will miss.”
“I shall hit at that skull between the antlers—one! two!”
All eyes were turned to the strong elk-skull fixed in front of Ranitski. He straightened his arm; the pistol turned in his palm.
“Three!” cried Kmita.
The shot sounded; the room was filled with powder smoke.