A moment he stood in the narrow south window, full in the smiling irony of Nature's sunshine; but only a moment. Then the mocking smile that had become an instinctive part of his nature spread over his face. "I see but one way to settle this difficulty," he intimated. A taunt sprang to Ichabod's tongue, but was as quickly repressed. "There is but one, unless--" with meaning pause. "I repeat, there is but one." Ichabod's long face held like wood. "Consider yourself, then, the challenged party." They were both very calm, now; the immediate exciting cause in the mind of neither. It seemed as if they had been expecting this time for years, had been preparing for it. "Perhaps, as yesterday, in the saloon?" The points of the big moustaches twitched ironically. "I promise you there'll be no procrastination as--at certain cases recorded." The mockery, malice inspired, was cleverly turned, and Ichabod's big chin protruded ominously, as he came over and fairly towered above the small man. "Most assuredly it'll not be as yesterday. If we're going to reverse civilization, we may as well roll it away back. We'll settle it alone, and here." Asa Arnold smiled up into the blue eyes. "You'd prefer to make the adjustment with your hands, too, perhaps? There'd be less risk, considering--" He stopped at the look on the face above his. No man _vis-a-vis_ with Ichabod Maurice ever made accusation of cowardice. Instead, instinctive sarcasm leaped to his lips. "Not being of the West, I don't ordinarily carry an arsenal with me, in anticipation of such incidents as these. If you're prepared, however,--" and he paused again. Ichabod turned away; a terrible weariness and disgust of it all--of life, himself, the little man,--in his face. A tragedy would not be so bad, but this lingering comedy of death--One thing alone was in his mind: to have it over, and quickly. "I didn't expect--this, either. We'll find another way." He glanced about the room. A bed, the improvised commode, a chair, a small table with a book upon it, and a tallow candle--an idea came to him, and his search terminated. "I may--suggest--" he hesitated. "Go on." Ichabod took up the candle, and, with his pocket-knife, cut it down until it was a mere stub in the socket, then lit a match and held the flame to the wick, until the tallow sputtered into burning. "You can estimate when that light will go out?" he intimated impassively. Asa Arnold watched the tall man, steadily, as the latter returned the candle to the table and drew out his watch. "I think so," _sotto voce_. Ichabod returned to his seat on the bed. "You are not afraid, perhaps, to go into the dark alone?" "No." "By your own hand?" "No," again, very slowly. Arnold understood now. "You swear?" Ichabod flashed a glance with the question. "I swear." "And I." A moment they both studied the sputtering candle. "It'll be within fifteen minutes," randomed Ichabod. Arnold drew out his watch slowly. "It'll be longer."