“Then fate is to decide between you, and each of you is to comply with the requirements of the field of honor.”
He took a few steps backward, keeping the combatants in full view. Then he raised his hand. Were they ready? Pirovani nodded. His adversary continued motionless.
The marqués brought his hands to within a few inches of one another, indicating that he was ready to give the first handclap. Every motion that he made was so slow that it assumed a tragic solemnity.
The other seconds, at a considerable distance from him, were looking on with ill-dissimulated emotion. Still kneeling near his instrument case, the doctor was looking up with wide-open eyes.
The marqués brought his hands together, slowly uttering “Fire.... One....”
Both men brought their revolvers down simultaneously.
Pirovani, whose sole thought at that moment was that he must not shoot after the third handclap, fired at once. His opponent blinked one eye, and the muscles of his cheek on the same side contracted slightly, as though he had felt a projectile brush close by. But he at once recovered his impassivity and went on taking aim.
The marqués clapped his hands again. “Two!”
When Pirovani saw that he had not wounded his enemy, and that now he stood disarmed before him, there passed over his face like a swift cloud, an expression of pure fear. But it had gone in an instant. Then, looking at Canterac who was still taking aim, he crossed his arms, pointing his own useless revolver at his breast, and, as though defying death, presented himself full face to the shot.
Moreno clutched Rojas by the shoulder.