'Ready?' asked O'Hara.
Both nodded acquiescence.
'Who shall drop the handkerchief?'
'Will you oblige?' prayed Blue Spectacles, with a tremor in his voice.
'All right!'
The handkerchief was dropped.
Almost instantaneously the Gascon fired. The smoke lifted. O'Hoolohan stood erect, unhurt, a placid self-possessed expression on his set features.
O'Hoolohan slowly moved five paces, halted; gradually raised his weapon, and deliberately aimed first at the Gascon's heart, then at his brain. It was a cruel experiment, but the Gascon bore it with splendid courage. His complexion paled, it is true, and his mouth was restive, but his gaze was bold and almost disdainful. O'Hoolohan raised the pistol still higher, turned its muzzle perpendicularly, and discharged it into the air, quietly saying, 'You are no coward; I am sorry for the expression!'
After such a scene it was impossible to renew the combat. The Gascon, in his turn, retracted the hasty language he had used, and the entire party betook them to the hostelry where breakfast had been ordered by O'Hara's care, all satisfied—except the surgeon, who had theories about gunshot wounds, and was not averse to having practice in their treatment.
The breakfast put them all—even the surgeon—into good humour. O'Hara knew how to draw up a bill of fare, and O'Hoolohan had given him carte blanche as to the outlay. There was everything at the repast, in season and out of season, that could be had for money—truffles of Perigord, melons of Cavaillon, oysters of Cancale, Montmorency cherries, and Montreuil peaches, beside vintage and viands generous of quality and copious in quantity.