Всадник без головы

Chapter 21

           Therewereheardshots—afterthebellhadbecomesilent,othersounds:thesharpshiveringofbrokenglass,thedullercrashoffallingfurniture,rudelyoverturnedinearneststruggle—thetramplingoffeetupontheboardedfloor—atintervalstheclearringingcrackoftherevolvers;butneitherofthevoicesofthemenwhoseinsensatepassionswerethecauseofallthiscommotion!Thecrowdinthestreetheardtheconfusednoises,andnotedtheintervalsofsilence,withoutbeingexactlyabletointerpretthem.Thereportsofthepistolswerealltheyhadtoproclaimtheprogressoftheduel.Elevenhadbeencounted;andinbreathlesssilencetheywerelisteningforthetwelfth.

           Insteadofapistolreporttheirearsweregratifiedbythesoundofavoice,recognisedasthatofthemustanger.

           "Mypistolisatyourhead!Ihaveoneshotleft—anapology,oryoudie!"

           Bythisthecrowdhadbecomeconvincedthatthefightwasapproachingitstermination.Someofthemorefearless,lookingin,beheldastrangescene.Theysawtwomenlyingprostrateontheplankfloor;bothwithbloodstainedhabiliments,bothevidentlydisabled;thewhitesandaroundthemreddenedwiththeirgore,trackedwithtortuoustrails,wheretheyhadcrawledclosertogetalastshotateachother—oneofthem,inscarletscarfandslashedvelvettrousers,slightlysurmountingtheother,andholdingapistoltohisheadthatthreatenedtodeprivehimoflife

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