And Herr von Richter proceeded to act. He picked out in the wood close by a very pretty clearing all studded with flowers; he measured out the steps, and marked the two extreme points with sticks, which he cut and pointed. He took the pistols out of the case, and squatting on his heels, he rammed in the bullets; in short, he fussed about and exerted himself to the utmost, continually mopping his perspiring brow with a white handkerchief. Pantaleone, who accompanied him, was more like a man frozen. During all these preparations, the two principals stood at a little distance, looking like two schoolboys who have been punished, and are sulky with their tutors. The decisive moment arrived…. “Each took his pistol….” But at this point Herr von Richter observed to Pantaleone that it was his duty, as the senior second, according to the rules of the duel, to address a final word of advice and exhortation to be reconciled to the combatants, before uttering the fatal “one! two! three!”; that although this exhortation had no effect of any sort and was, as a rule, nothing but an empty formality, still, by the performance of this formality, Herr Cippatola would be rid of a certain share of responsibility; that, properly speaking, such an admonition formed the direct duty of the so-called “impartial witness” (_unpartheiischer Zeuge_) but since they had no such person present, he, Herr von Richter, would readily yield this privilege to his honoured colleague. Pantaleone, who had already succeeded in obliterating himself behind a bush, so as not to see the offending officer at all, at first made out nothing at all of Herr von Richter’s speech, especially, as it had been delivered through the nose, but all of a sudden he started, stepped hurriedly forward, and convulsively thumping at his chest, in a hoarse voice wailed out in his mixed jargon: “_A la la la … Che bestialita! Deux zeun ommes comme ça que si battono—perchè? Che diavolo? Andata a casa!_” “I will not consent to a reconciliation,” Sanin intervened hurriedly. “And I too will not,” his opponent repeated after him. “Well, then shout one, two, three!” von Richter said, addressing the distracted Pantaleone. The latter promptly ducked behind the bush again, and from there, all huddled together, his eyes screwed up, and his head turned away, he shouted at the top of his voice: “_Una … due … tre!_” The first shot was Sanin’s, and he missed. His bullet went ping against a tree. Baron von Dönhof shot directly after him—intentionally, to one side, into the air. A constrained silence followed…. No one moved. Pantaleone uttered a faint moan. “Is it your wish to go on?” said Dönhof. “Why did you shoot in the air?” inquired Sanin. “That’s nothing to do with you.” “Will you shoot in the air the second time?” Sanin asked again. “Possibly: I don’t know.” “Excuse me, excuse me, gentlemen …” began von Richter; “duellists have not the right to talk together. That’s out of order.”