I felt the bullet cut the lining of my tunic and burn the flesh over
my ribs, and the warm blood tickling my side, but I was determined he
should not know he had hit me, and not even my lips moved.

Then a change, so sudden and so remarkable, came over the face of
young Fiske, that its very agony fascinated me. At first it was
incomprehensible, and then I understood. He had fired his last shot,
he thought he had missed, and he was waiting for me, at my leisure, to
kill him with my second bullet.

I raised the pistol, and it was as though you could hear the silence.
Every waking thing about us seemed to suddenly grow still. I brought
the barrel slowly to a level with his knee, raised it to his heart,
passed it over his head, and, aiming in the air, fired at the moon,
and then tossed the gun away. The waking world seemed to breathe
again, and from every side there came a chorus of quick exclamations;
but without turning to note who made them, nor what they signified, I
walked back to the carriage, and picked up my cigar. It was still
burning.

Von Ritter ran to the side of the carriage.

"You must wait," he protested. "Mr. Fiske wishes to shake hands with
you. It is not finished yet."

"Yes, it is finished," I replied, savagely. "I have humored you two
long enough. A pest on both your houses. I'm going back to breakfast."

Poor Von Ritter drew away, deeply hurt and scandalized, but my offence