He pressed a spring, released a secret drawer in the desk and found what he was seeking: a box of polished mahogany. Opening the lid, he beckoned to Cartaret. There, on a purple velvet lining, lay a beautifully kept pair of dueling-pistols, muzzle-loaders of the Eighteenth Century pattern and of about .32 caliber, their long octagonal barrels of shining dark blue steel, their curved butts of ivory handsomely inlaid with a Moorish design in gold.
“Listen,” said Eskurola, “as we are to have no seconds, I shall write a line to exculpate you in case you survive me. Then”—his gray eyes shone; he seemed to take a satisfaction that was close to delight in arranging these lethal details—“also as we are to have no seconds to give a signal, we shall have but one true shot between us. Certainly. Are we not men, we two? And we have proved ourselves marksmen. You cannot doubt me, but I have a man that speaks French, so that you shall see that I do not trick you, sir.”
He went to the door and called into the court-yard. Presently there answered him a man whom Cartaret recognized as one of those who, the night before, held the dogs in leash.
“Murillo Gomez,” said Eskurola, in a French more labored than his English, “in five minutes this gentleman and I shall want the terrace to ourselves. You will close the gate when we go out. You will remain on this side of it, and you will permit none to pass. Answer me in French.”
The servant’s face showed no surprise.
“Oui, señor,” he said.
“Now you will take these pistols and bring them back without delay. In the armory you will load one with powder and shot, the other with powder only. Neither this gentleman nor I must know which is which. You understand?”
The servant’s face was still impassive.
“Oui, señor.”
“Go then. Also see that the Doña Dolorez remains in her own apartments. And hurry.”