The combat, now declared inevitable, its preliminaries are speedily
arranged. Under the circumstances, and between such adversaries, the
punctilios of ceremony are slight. For theirs is the rough code of
honour common to robbers of all countries and climes.
No seconds are chosen, nor spoken of. All on the ground are to act as
such; and at once proceed to business.
Some measure off the distance, stepping it between two stones. Others
examine the pistols, to see that both are loaded with ball-cartridge,
and carefully capped. The fight is to be with Colt's six-shooters, navy
size. Each combatant chances to have one of this particular pattern.
They are to commence firing at twelve paces, and if that be ineffectual,
then close up, as either chooses. If neither fall to the shots, then to
finish with the steel.
The captives inside the cave are ignorant of what is going on. Little
dream they of the red tragedy soon to be enacted so near, or how much
they themselves may be affected by its result. It is indeed to them the
chances of a contrasting destiny.
The duellists take stand by the stones, twelve paces apart. Blew having
stripped off his pilot-cloth coat, is in his shirt-sleeves. These
rolled up to the elbow, expose ranges of tattooing, fouled anchors,
stars, crescents, and a woman--a perfect medley of forecastle souvenirs.
They show also muscles, lying along his arms like lanyards round a
ship's stay. Should the shots fail, those arms promise well for
wielding the cutlass; and if his fingers should clutch his antagonist's
throat, the struggle will be a short one.
Still, no weak adversary will he meet in Francisco de Lara. He, too,
has laid aside his outer garment--thrown off his scarlet cloak, and the
heavy hat. He does not need stripping to the shirt-sleeves; his light
_jaqueta_ of velveteen in no way encumbers him. Fitting like a glove,
it displays arms of muscular strength, with a body in symmetrical
correspondence.
A duel between two such gladiators might be painful, but for all, a
fearfully interesting spectacle. Those about to witness it seem to
think so, as they stand silent, with breath bated, and eyes alternately
on one and the other.
As it has been arranged that Striker is to give the signal, the
ex-convict, standing centrally outside the line of fire, is about to say
a word that will set two men, mad as tigers, at one another--each with
full resolve to fire, cut down, and kill.
There is a moment of intense stillness, like the lull which precedes a
storm. Nothing heard save the tidal wash against the near strand, the
boom of the distant breakers, and at intervals the shrill scream of a
sea-bird.
The customary "Ready!" is forming on Striker's lips, to be followed by
the "Fire!--one--two--three!" But not one of these words--not a
syllable--is he permitted to speak. Before he can give utterance to the
first, a cry comes down from the cliff, which arrests the attention of
all; soon as understood, enchaining it.