paces, stopped thunderstruck. Then, forgetting their rifles, they
threw stones and withdrew. Neither of the two groups had a decided
leader to lead it to the front, and neither of the two dared to shoot
first for fear that the other would at the same time bring his own arm
to his shoulder. They were too near to hope to escape, or so they
thought at least, although in reality, reciprocal firing, at such
short ranges, is almost always too high. The man who would fire sees
himself already killed by the return fire. He throws stones, and not
with great force, to avoid using his rifle, to distract the enemy, to
occupy the time, until flight offers him some chance of escaping at
point-blank range.

This agreeable state of affairs did not last long, a minute perhaps.
The appearance of a troop B on one flank determined the flight of A,
and then the opposing group fired.

Surely, the affair is ridiculous and laughable.

Let us see, however. In a thick forest, a lion and a tiger meet face
to face at a turn in the trail. They stop at once, rearing and ready
to spring. They measure each other with their eyes, there is a
rumbling in their throats. The claws move convulsively, the hair
stands up. With tails lashing the ground, and necks stretched, ears
flattened, lips turned up, they show their formidable fangs in that
terrible threatening grimace of fear characteristic of felines.

Unseen, I shudder.

The situation is disagreeable for both: movement ahead means the death
of a beast. Of which? Of both perhaps.