"Halt!" cried Fatia Negra with a voice like a scream—"this is my house and your tomb."
Szilard did not condescend to reply but drew a step nearer.
"Sir, but one word more," said Fatia Negra in a fainter voice and so hoarsely as to be scarcely audible, "you have wounded me, you have run me down; but your life is now in my hands and I could kill you this instant if I had a mind to. Let us bargain a bit: I won't kill you if you will not pursue me any further. You return and say you could not catch me. I swear to you that to-morrow I will send you twenty thousand ducats."
With contemptuous coldness Szilard replied: "Surrender, I will not bargain."
"You won't bargain, you crushed worm you! The mouth of my pistol is on a level with your forehead. I have only to press my finger and your head would be shattered—and yet you dare to have it out with me? Do you want to save your head?"
"I mean to have yours," said Szilard and he drew a step nearer to the adventurer.
"My head, eh? Ha, ha, ha! You would have it would you, and have it here! Take it then!"
At that moment a piercing shriek startled the two deadly antagonists and in the adjoining room a white figure fell prone upon the floor.
The next moment there was a loud report and Fatia Negra fell back lifeless on the bear skin carpet.
At the very moment when he had laughed aloud and cried: "Take it then!" he had suddenly put the mouth of the pistol into his own mouth and fired it off. The heavy charge blew his head to bits, Szilard felt a warm red rain showering down upon him.