And chewing mechanically he became absorbed in the fatal story.
The anecdote ran on insidiously in a natural strain, told with a master's art, firm and sure, with strategic progression, showing real genius, until it nearly reached the climax. Around about this point the entanglement so held the attention of the poor old man that he remained motionless, with lips parted and an olive, stuck on his fork in mid air. A half smile,—a detained smile, the spark of laughter which is the preparation for a peal of laughter, lit up his face.
Pontes hesitated. He foresaw the break of the artery. Conscience cramped his tongue, but only for an instant. Pontes let conscience quiet down again and pulled the trigger.
For the first time in his life Major Antonio Pereira da Silva Bentes broke into a hearty peal of laughter; frank, resounding,—which could be heard all down the street; a peal of laughter equal to that of Teufelsdröckh before John Paul Richter. The first and the last, because in the midst of it his astonished guests saw him fall face-downwards over his plate, while at the same time a gush of blood reddened the table-cloth.
The assassin rose hallucinated and making the most of the confusion, slipped out onto the street, a modern Cain. He hid himself at home, locked in his room, his teeth chattering the night through, in a cold sweat. The least noise filled him with terror: was it the Police?
Weeks later he began to get over that soul-fright which everyone attributed to sorrow over
