“That is if you are alive to-morrow,” said the curate, breathless, and directing himself toward the sala.
“What! do you think that that seven-months-old puppy will kill me? I’ll kick him to pieces.”
Father Salví stepped back and looked instinctively at the feet of the alferez.
“Whom are you talking about?” asked he, trembling.
“Of whom could I be talking but that big blockhead who proposes to challenge me to a duel with revolvers at one hundred paces?”
“Ah!” sighed the curate, and added: “I have come to speak about a most urgent matter which seriously concerns the life of all of us.”
“Seriously!” repeated the alferez, turning pale in turn. “Does this young fellow shoot well...?”
“I am not speaking about him.”
“Then?”
The friar pointed to the door which the alferez shut in his customary manner, by a kick. The alferez usually found his hands superfluous. An imprecation and a groan from without were heard.