The steepness of the declivity made it necessary for Orso to dismount.  He was walking quickly down the hill, which was slippery with ashes (he had thrown the bridle on his horse’s neck), and was hardly five-and-twenty paces from one of these stone fences, when, just in front of him, on the right-hand side of the road, he perceived first of all the barrel of a gun, and then a head, rising over the top of the wall.  The gun was levelled, and he recognised Orlanduccio, just ready to fire.  Orso swiftly prepared for self-defence, and the two men, taking deliberate aim, stared at each other for several seconds, with that thrill of emotion which the bravest must feel when he knows he must either deal death or endure it.

“Vile coward!” shouted Orso.

The words were hardly out of his mouth when he saw the flash of Orlanduccio’s gun, and almost at the same instant a second shot rang out on his left from the other side of the path, fired by a man whom he had not noticed, and who was aiming at him from behind another wall.  Both bullets struck him.  The first, Orlanduccio’s, passed through his left arm, which Orso had turned toward him as he aimed.  The second shot struck him in the chest, and tore his coat, but coming in contact with the blade of his dagger, it luckily flattened against it, and only inflicted a trifling bruise.  Orso’s left arm fell helpless at his side, and the barrel of his gun dropped for a moment, but he raised it at once, and aiming his weapon with his right hand only, he fired at Orlanduccio.  His enemy’s head, which was only exposed to the level of the eyes, disappeared behind the wall.  Then Orso, swinging round to the left, fired the second barrel at a man in a cloud of smoke whom he could hardly see.  This face likewise disappeared.  The four shots had followed each other with incredible swiftness; no trained soldiers ever fired their volleys in quicker succession.  After Orso’s last shot a great silence fell.  The smoke from his weapon rose slowly up into the sky.  There was not a movement, not the slightest sound from behind the wall.  But for the pain in his arm, he could have fancied the men on whom he had just fired had been phantoms of his own imagination.

Fully expecting a second volley, Orso moved a few steps, to place himself behind one of the burned trees that still stood upright in the maquis.  Thus sheltered, he put his gun between his knees, and hurriedly reloaded it.  Meanwhile his left arm began to hurt him horribly, and felt as if it were being dragged down by a huge weight.

What had become of his adversaries?  He could not understand.  If they had taken to flight, if they had been wounded, he would certainly have heard some noise, some stir among the leaves.  Were they dead, then?  Or, what was far more likely, were they not waiting behind their wall for a chance of shooting at him again.  In his uncertainty, and feeling his strength fast failing him, he knelt down