No doubt, I might have laughed at it, had I been a mere looker on-- herald or spectator; but, unfortunately, being a principal in this deadly duello--a real wrestler in the backwoods arena--the provocative to mirth was given in vain; and only served to heighten the solemnity of the situation. The circumstances might have elicited laughter; but the contingency, turn whatever way it might, was too serious to admit of levity on my part. Either horn of the dilemma presented a sharp point. To suffer one's-self to be killed, in this _sans facon_, was little else than suicide--while to kill, smacked strongly of murder! And one or the other was the probable issue--nay, more than probable: for, as I bent my eyes on the resolute countenance of my _vis-a-vis_, I felt certain that there was no chance of escaping from the terrible alternative. He stood perfectly immobile--his long rifle raised to the "ready," with its muzzle pointing towards me--and in his eye I could not read the slightest sign that he wavered in his determination! That grey-green orb was the only member that moved: his body, limbs, and features were still and rigid, as the stump behind which he stood. The eye alone showed signs of life. I could see its glance directed towards three points--in such rapid succession, that it might be said to look "three ways at once"--to the decoy upon the ground, to the shadowy forms upon the tree, and towards myself--its chief object of surveillance! "Merciful Heavens! is there no means to avert this doom of dread? Is it an absolute necessity, that I must either kill this colossus, or be myself slain? Is there no alternative? Is there still no chance of an arrangement?" Hopeless as it appeared, I resolved to make a last effort for peace. Once more I should try the force of an appeal. If he refused to assent to it, my position would be no worse. Better, indeed: since I stood in need of some stimulus to arouse me to an attitude, even of defence. This thought swaying me, I called out: "Holt! you are a brave man. I know it. Why should this go on? It is not too late--" "_You_ air a coward!" cried he, interrupting me, "an' I know it--a sneakin' coward, in spite o' yur soger clothes! Shet up yur durned head, or ye'll scare away the birds! an', by the tarnal! ef you do, I'll fire at ye, the fust that takes wing!" "Let that be the signal, then!" cried I, roused to an impatient indignation by this new insult: "_the first that takes wing_!" "Agreed!" was the quick rejoinder, delivered in a tone that bespoke determination to abide by it.