him, made him forget his own
interest.

In addition to being thoroughly accustomed to the manchetta, which he
often had had occasion to use, the adventurer was strong, active, and
artful, so that against an adversary who was scarcely twenty, who could
have neither his strength nor his dexterity, the chances were greatly in
his favor.

Manoel by a last effort wished to insist on fighting him instead of
Benito.

"No, Manoel," was the cool reply, "it is for me alone to avenge my
father, and as everything here ought to be in order, you shall be my
second."

"Benito!"

"As for you, Fragoso, you will not refuse if I ask you to act as second
for that man?"

"So be it," answered Fragoso, "though it is not an office of honor.
Without the least ceremony," he added, "I would have killed him like a
wild beast."

The place where the duel was about to take place was a level bank about
fifty paces long, on the top of a cliff rising perpendicularly some
fifty feet above the Amazon. The river slowly flowed at the foot, and
bathed the clumps of reeds which bristled round its base.

There was, therefore, none too much room, and the combatant who was the
first to give way would quickly be driven over into the abyss.

The signal was given by Manoel, and Torres and Benito stepped forward.

Benito had complete command over himself. The defender of a sacred
cause, his coolness was unruffled, much more so than that of Torres,
whose conscience insensible and hardened as it was, was bound at the
moment to trouble him.

The two met, and the first blow came from Benito. Torres parried it.
They then jumped back, but almost at the same instant they rushed
together, and with their left hands seized each other by the
shoulder--never to leave go again.

Torres, who was the strongest, struck a side blow with his manchetta
which Benito could not quite parry. His left side was touched, and his
poncho was reddened with his blood. But he quickly replied, and slightly
wounded Torres in the hand.

Several blows were then interchanged, but nothing decisive was done. The
ever silent gaze of Benito pierced the eyes of Torres like a sword
blade thrust to his very heart. Visibly the scoundrel began to quail. He
recoiled little by little, pressed back by his implacable foe, who was
more determined on taking the life of his father's denouncer than in
defending his own. To strike was all that Benito longed for; to parry
was all that the other now a