“I will do what I please. Are you afraid of the noise?”
“It is you who should be afraid of the noise, lest they hear us and come to part us. If we do not succeed at the first shot nothing will come of it, for they will come and separate us. Is that perhaps what you want?”
“You are right,” replied Panfilo. “Well, then, there is no time to lose. Let us get at it.”
* * * *
Soon they found themselves on foot, lame, covered with dust, pale, horrible. They seemed not men, but fierce beasts.
* * * *
The contest could not prolong itself for the combatants were exhausted. They could scarcely move; but they did not wish to yield, since although strength failed, anger more than abounded.
Chance finally settled the contest. When Roque raised his arm to deal a blow with his machete upon Panfilo’s head, the latter by a quick movement tried to parry the blow, to save his head from being cleft open. But he parried it, not with his blade, but with the haft, and the heavy weapon of his antagonist severed his smaller fingers. With this there fell to the ground the sword and the amputated fingers; that tinged with blood, these livid and convulsed.
“Now, yes, I have lost,” exclaimed the wounded man with a gesture of grief.
“Yes, friend,” replied Roque, filled with consternation. “What need was there of this?”