Part 31 (2/2)

Don Ricardo leaped backward. It was doubtless the first time in his life that such a phrase had been addressed to him, and he received it as he might have received a blow. Both in mind and body, he staggered.

”My sister has told me----” he began.

”I don't want to hear any more, senor. I've said all that I have to say.” Cartaret thrust his hands into the pockets of his riding-breeches and, turning his back on Eskurola, looked out of the window.

”Now,” the Basque was saying, as his mental balance rea.s.serted itself--”now we must indeed fight.”

Cartaret himself was thinking rapidly and by no means clearly. To say that dueling was not an American custom would avail him nothing--would be interpreted as cowardice; to fight with a man bred as Don Ricardo was evidently bred would be to walk out to death. Cartaret looked at the panorama of the mountains. Well, why not death? Less than an hour ago his whole life had been mined, had been sent cras.h.i.+ng about his head. The only thing that he cared for in life was taken from him: Vitoria had herself declared that she hated him. Nor that alone--the thought burned in his brain: she had told this wild brother of hers that he, Cartaret, had insulted her; she had incited Eskurola to battle--perhaps to save herself, perhaps to salve some strange Basque conception of honor or pride. So be it; Cartaret could render her one more service--the last: if he allowed himself to be killed by this half-savage who so serenely thought that he was better than all the rest of the world, Don Ricardo's wounded honor would be healed, and Vitoria--now evidently herself in danger or revengeful--would be either safe or pacified. The Twentieth Century had never entered these mountains, and Cartaret, entering them, had left his own modernity behind.

”All right,” said he, ”since you're so confounded hungry for it, I'll fight you. Anything to oblige.”

He looked about to find Eskurola bowing gratefully: the man's eyes seemed to be selecting the spot on their enemy's body at which to inflict the fatal wound.

”I am glad, sir, that you see reason,” said Don Ricardo.

”I'm not sure that I see reason,” said Cartaret, ”but I'm going to fight you.”

”I do not suppose that you can use a rapier, Mr. Cartaret?”

It was clear that not to understand the rapier was to be not quite a gentleman; but Cartaret made the confession. ”Not that it matters,” he reflected.

”But you can shoot?”

Cartaret remembered the boyish days when he had taken prizes for his marksmans.h.i.+p with a revolver. It was the one folly of his youth that he had continued, and he found a certain satisfaction (so much did Eskurola's pride impress him) in admitting this, albeit he did not mean to use the accomplishment now.

”I carry this with me,” said he, producing his automatic revolver.

Don Ricardo scarcely glanced at it.

”That is not the weapon for a marksman,” he said. ”Nevertheless, let me see what you can do. None will be disturbed; these walls are sound-proof.” He took a gold coin, an alfonso, from his pocket and flung it into the air. ”Shoot!” he commanded.

Cartaret had expected nothing of the sort. He fired and missed. The report roared through the room; the acrid taste of the powder filled the air. Eskurola caught the descending coin in his hand. Cartaret saw that his failure had annoyed Don Ricardo, and this in its turn annoyed the American.

”I didn't know you were going to try me,” he said, ”and I'm not used to marking up the ceilings of my friends' houses. Try again.”

The Basque, without comment, flung up the alfonso a second time, and a second time Cartaret fired. Eskurola reached for the coin as before, but this time it flew off at an angle and struck the farther wall.

When they picked it up, they found that it had been hit close to the edge of the disk.

”Not the center,” said Don Ricardo.

”Indeed?” said Cartaret. What sort of shot would please the man?

”Suppose you try.”

Eskurola explained that he was not accustomed to such a revolver, but he would not s.h.i.+rk the challenge; and there was no need for him to s.h.i.+rk it: when Cartaret recovered the alfonso after Don Ricardo had shot, there was a mark full in its middle.

”So much for His Spanish Majesty,” said the Basque, as he glanced at the mark made by his bullet in the face upon the coin. ”We shall use dueling-pistols. I have them here.” He went to the desk.

Cartaret had no doubt that Eskurola had them there: he probably had a rack and thumbscrews handy below-stairs.

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