He would let him off for two pins! He would let him off if⸺Yes! He began pretending to himself that the duel might after all not take place. That was the only way he could get anything out of it. He laughed; then shouted out in German: “Give me one!” They all looked round. Soltyk did not turn, but the side of his face became crimson. Kreisler felt a surge of active passion at the sight of the blood in his face. “Give me one,” Kreisler shouted again, putting out the palm of his hand, and laughing in a thick, insulting, hearty way. He was now a _Knabe_. He was young and cheeky. His last words had been said with quick cleverness. The heavy coquetting was double-edged. “What do you mean?” Bitzenko called back. “I want a jujube. Ask Herr Soltyk!” They all turned towards the other principal to the duel, standing some yards on the other side of them. Head thrown back and eyes burning, Soltyk gazed at Kreisler. It was genuine, but not very strong. If killing could be embodied in the organ that _sees_—a new function of expression—a perfect weapon would exist. Only the intensest expression being effective, such spiritual blasting powers would be a solution of the arbitrary decisions of force. Words, glances, music are at present as indirect as hands and cannons. Such music might be written, however, that no fool, hearing it, could survive. Whether it throttled him in a spasm of disgust or of shame is immaterial. Soltyk’s battery was too conventional to pierce the layers of putrifying tragedy, Kreisler’s bulwark. It played to the limit of its power. His cheeks were a dull red: his upper lip was stretched tightly over the gums. The white line of teeth made his face look as though he were laughing. He stamped his foot on the ground with the impetuous grace of a Russian dancer, and started walking hurriedly up and down. He glared at his seconds as well, but although sick with impatience made no protest. A peal of drawling laughter came from Kreisler: “Sorry! Sorry! My mistake,” he shouted. Bitzenko came over and asked Kreisler if he still, for his part, was of the same mind, that the duel should go on. The principal stared impenetrably at the second. “If such an arrangement can be come to as should—er⸺” he began slowly. He was going to play with Bitzenko too, against whom his humour had shifted. A look of deepest dismay appeared in the Russian’s face. “I don’t understand. You mean⸺?” “I mean, that if the enemy and you can find a basis for understanding⸺” and Kreisler went on staring at Bitzenko with his look of false surprise. “You seem very anxious for me to fight, Herr Bitzenko,” he then said furiously. With a laugh at Bitzenko’s miserable face and evident pleasure at his quick-change temperamental, facial agility, he left him, walking towards the other assistants. Addressing Staretsky, his face radiating affability, stepping with caution, as though to avoid puddles, he said: