“Here! Upon this spot! This very instant!” shouted Gonzalez. “Vile seducer and murderer,” he added, “you have killed your man! Where is your vaunted courage? Will that arouse you?” and he struck him a fierce blow. The count’s face flushed, he clutched the weapon, and turning to Gonzalez with a look as vindictive as his own, sternly motioned him to take his position. How corroding is the effect of vice! Time was when the unhappy nobleman would have shrunk in horror from the contaminating touch of one guilty of a crime, the dreadful consequences of which, in all the appalling majesty of death, were then before him. And yet, more fiend-like than such a wretch, he stood in all the concentrated hatred of a duelist, prepared to take the life of the brother of his victim. By a career of vice, the once honorable man had been converted into a demon. The combatants confronted each other, leveled their weapons, and fired so simultaneously that the reports sounded as one. The pistol of Gonzalez was struck from his hand and one of his fingers shattered. Heedless of the pain, as the reverberation ceased, he bent forward to see if his adversary were unhurt. Partially concealed by a spiral wreath of smoke, the count stood seemingly unscathed before him. But the moment after his weapon dropped, he pressed his hand to his side, and casting a look of anguish and despair upon the corpse of the woman he had ruined, tottered, reeled, and fell heavily upon the floor! The threat of Gonzales was verified. Almost instantaneously, two souls were summoned to their dread account. When Gonzalez sprung upon the boatman from behind, he took him so much by surprise that he had hurled him over and pointed a dagger to his throat before he could muster presence of mind enough to defend himself. “Villain,” said Gonzalez, “lie still, and answer me truly, or I pin you to the earth. I already know enough to tell if you deceive me. As you value your life, say where has that carriage gone?” “A la hacienda Frangipina, señor.” “Why doesn’t it go to Mariel, as first intended?” “Yo no say, señor.” “Will you swear that what you tell me is true?” “Si, señor, por mi alma.” “Pshaw! Your soul is forfeit.” “Por la Señora Nuestra.” “Well, I’ll believe you, for my countrymen never deceive when they swear ‘by our Lady.’”