The old Hungarian stood at his post with folded arms and lowered eyes, while Michel approached him, and said:
“Count Varhely, I repeat to you that I wished to prevent this marriage, but not to insult the Prince. I give you my word of honor that this is true. If you survive me, will you promise to repeat this to him?”
“I promise.”
“I thank you.”
They took their positions.
Angelo Valla was to give the signal to fire.
He stood holding a white handkerchief in his outstretched hand, and with his eyes fixed upon the two adversaries, who were placed opposite each other, with their coats buttoned up to the chin, and their pistols held rigidly by their side.
Varhely was as motionless as if made of granite. Menko smiled.
“One! Two!” counted Valla.
He paused as if to take breath: then—