Sarde hesitated.
“Come, I know you’re a coward, but never mind that. Brace up! You shall be a man for once. There now; at fifteen paces, eh? No? Don’t disappoint me, please,” the Blackguard pleaded. “I spoil for it—I beg you—have you no inside? Are you a shadow in trousers? Nombre de Dios! It’s for your wife’s honor!”
“I tell you that officers can’t fight with—”
“With me, Senor? I waive that, I tell you—I, Jose Santa Maria Sebastian Sant Iago Nuñez Ramiro de Guzman, de la Mancha, Marques de las Alpuxarras, Conde del Pulgar, a peer of Castile, am ready to waive my rank and fight a scrambled skunk! Draw! Stand back! At the word three I fire—one—two—Sangre de Cristo!”
Sarde had fired.
“What the deuce do you mean by firing before I give the word, eh? I’ll punch your head for that!” The Blackguard clutched at a burning pain on his shoulder, his hand was dyed with the blood of a spurting artery—and yet this seemed to concern him less than the red glare from within the fort which had flushed the face of his adversary. He reeled backwards now, staring up at the stockade, whose timbers loomed black against a fiery glow, which was rapidly mounting to heaven above Fort Carlton.
“Sarde,” said la Mancha, gravely, “you see that?”
“Had enough?” asked Sarde; “I’m going to kill you now. I fire when I count three—one—two—defend yourself—”
“Presently, my good man, presently,” la Mancha waved his hand to Sarde. “Don’t you see that the fort is on fire?”
“On fire—what? On fire! By the living—”