"His pistol protruded from a side pocket. I measured twelve paces and
took my stand there in that corner, begging him to fire quickly, before
my wife arrived. He hesitated, and asked for a light. Candles were
brought in. I closed the doors, gave orders that nobody was to enter,
and again begged him to fire. He drew out his pistol and took aim. . . .
I counted the seconds. . . . I thought of her. . . . A terrible minute
passed! Silvio lowered his hand.

"'I regret,' said he, 'that the pistol is not loaded with cherry-
stones . . . the bullet is heavy. It seems to me that this is not a duel,
but a murder. I am not accustomed to taking aim at unarmed men. Let us
begin all over again; we will cast lots as to who shall fire first.'

"My head went round. . . . I think I raised some objection. . . . At last
we loaded another pistol, and rolled up two pieces of paper. He placed
these latter in his cap--the same through which I had once sent a
bullet--and again I drew the first number.

"'You are devilish lucky, Count,' said he, with a smile that I shall
never forget.

"I don't know what was the matter with me, or how it was that he managed
to make me do it . . . but I fired and hit that picture."

The Count pointed with his finger to the perforated picture; his face
glowed like fire; the Countess was whiter than her own handkerchief; and
I could not restrain an exclamation.

"I fired," continued the Count, "and, thank Heaven, missed my aim. Then