Kreisler plucked the revolver out of his pocket with the deftness of an animal. There was a report. He was firing in the air.
Staretsky had faced quickly round, dragging Soltyk. Kreisler was covering them with the Browning.
“Halt!” he shouted. “Stop there! Not so quickly! I will shoot you like a dog if you will not fight!”
Still holding them up, he ordered Bitzenko to take over to them one of the revolvers provided for the duel.
“That will be murder! If you assist in this, sir, you will be participating in a murder! Stop this⸺”
Staretsky was jabbering at Bitzenko, his arm through his friend’s. Soltyk stood wiping his face with his hand, his eyes on the ground. His breath came heavily, and he kept shifting his feet.
Bitzenko’s tall young Russian stood in a twisted attitude, a gargoyle Apollo. His mask of peasant tragedy had broken into a slight smile.
“Move and I fire! Move and I fire!” Kreisler kept shouting, moving up towards them, with stealthy grogginess. He kept shaking the revolver and pointing at them with the other hand, to keep them alive to the reality of the menace.
“Don’t touch the pistols, Louis!” said Staretsky, as Bitzenko came over with his leather dispatch-case. He let go of Soltyk’s arm and folded his own.
“Don’t touch them, Louis. They daren’t shoot!”