THE AMERICAN
could. It entered, accursedly, our poor friend's left side, just below the heart."
As they picked their way, in the grey, deceptive dawn, between the manure-heaps of the village street, Newman's new acquaintance narrated the particulars of the meeting. The conditions had been that if the first exchange of shots should fail to satisfy one of the parties a second should take place. Valentin's first bullet had done exactly what Newman's companion was convinced he had intended it to do; it had grazed the arm of M. Stanislas Kapp, just scratching the flesh. M. Kapp's own projectile, meanwhile, had passed at ten good inches from the person of Valentin. The representatives of M. Stanislas had demanded another shot, which was then, on Valentin's absolute insistence, granted. But Valentin had fired into space, and the young Alsatian had done effective execution. "I saw, when we met him on the ground," said Newman's informant, that he was not going to be commode. A mixture of the donkey and the buffalo—with no sense whatever of proportion." Valentin had immediately been installed at the inn, while M. Stanislas and his friends had withdrawn to regions unknown. The police authorities of the canton had waited upon the others, had placed them under technical arrest and had drawn up a long procès-verbal; but as the wine had been drawn—alas!—the powers would have to drink it. Newman asked if a message had not been sent to the family, and learned that up to a late hour of the previous night Valentin had opposed it. He had refused to believe his wound dangerous.
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