Arnold drew out his watch slowly.
“It’ll be longer.”
That was all. Each had made his choice; a trivial matter of one second in the candle’s life would decide which of these two men would die by his own hand.
For a minute there was no sound. They could not even hear their breathing. Then Arnold cleared his throat.
“You didn’t say when the loser must pay his debt,” he suggested.
Ichabod’s voice in answer was a trifle husky.
“It won’t be necessary.” A vision of the future flashed, sinister, inevitable. “The man who loses won’t care to face the necessity long.” 214
Five minutes more passed. Down the street the blacksmith was hammering steadily. Beneath the window the group of farmers had separated; their departing footsteps tapping into distance and silence.
Minna went to the street door, calling loudly for Hans, Jr., who had strayed,––and both men started at the sound. The quick catch of their breathing was now plainly audible.
Arnold shifted in his chair.