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“Senor, I have taken the liberty to put my horse in the stall occupied by yours. Your beast the muchacho turned into the corrale. Mine is an animal of spirit, and in a corrale would fight with the other horses. I rely upon the senor’s indulgence.”

At ordinary times he would not have relied in vain. But Felipe’s nerves were in a jangle these days, and his temper, since Buelna’s dismissal of him, was bitter. His perception of offense was keen. He rose, his eyes upon the stranger’s eyes.

“My horse is mine,” he observed. “Only my friends permit themselves liberties with what is mine.”

The other smiled scornfully and drew from his belt a little pouch of gold dust.

“What I take I pay for,” he remarked, and, still smiling, tendered Felipe a few grains of the gold.

Felipe struck the outstretched palm.

“Am I a peon?” he vociferated.

“Probably,” retorted the other.

“I will take pay for that word,” cried Felipe, his face blazing, “but not in your money, senor.”

“In that case I may give you more than you ask.”

“No, by God, for I shall take all you have.”

But the other checked his retort. A sudden change came over him.

“I ask the senor’s pardon,” he said, with grave earnestness, “for provoking him. You may not fight with me nor I with you. I speak the truth. I have made oath not to fight till I have killed one whom now I seek.”

“Very well; I, too, spoke without reflection. You seek an enemy, then, senor?”

“My sister’s, who is therefore mine. An enemy truly. Listen, you shall judge. I am absent from my home a year, and when I return what do I find? My sister betrayed, deceived, flouted by a fellow, a nobody, whom she received a guest in her house, a fit return for kindness, for hospitality! Well, he answers to me for the dishonour.”

“Wait. Stop!” interposed Felipe. “Your name, senor.”

“Unzar Ytuerate, and my enemy is called Arillaga. Him I seek and—-“

“Then you shall seek no farther!” shouted Felipe. “It is to Rubia Ytuerate, your sister, whom I owe all my unhappiness, all my suffering. She has hurt not me only, but one–but—-Mother of God, we waste words!” he cried. “Knife to knife, Unzar Ytuerate. I am Felipe Arillaga, and may God be thanked for the chance that brings this quarrel to my hand.”

“You! You!” gasped Unzar. Fury choked him; his hands clutched and unclutched–now fists, now claws. His teeth grated sharply while a quivering sensation as of a chill crisped his flesh. “Then the sooner the better,” he muttered between his set teeth, and the knives flashed in the hands of the two men so suddenly that the gleam of one seemed only the reflection of the other.

Unzar held out his left wrist.

“Are you willing?” he demanded, with a significant glance.

“And ready,” returned the other, baring his forearm.

Catala, keeper of the inn, was called.

“Love of the Virgin, not here, senors. My house–the alcalde–“

“You have a strap there.” Unzar pointed to a bridle hanging from a peg by the doorway. “No words; quick; do as you are told.”

The two men held out their left arms till wrist touched wrist, and Catala, trembling and protesting, lashed them together with a strap.

“Tighter,” commanded Felipe; “put all your strength to it.”

The strap was drawn up to another hole.

“Now, Catala, stand back,” commanded Unzar, “and count three slowly. At the word ‘three,’ Senor Arillaga, we begin. You understand.”

“I understand.”

“Ready…. Count.”

“One.”

Felipe and Unzar each put his right hand grasping the knife behind his back as etiquette demanded.

“Two.”

They strained back from each other, the full length of their left arms, till the nails grew bloodless.

“Three!” called Lopez Catala in a shaking voice.

III. RUBIA

When Felipe regained consciousness he found that he lay in an upper chamber of Catala’s inn upon a bed. His shoulder, the right one, was bandaged, and so was his head. He felt no pain, only a little weak, but there was a comfortable sense of brandy at his lips, an arm supported his head, and the voice of Rubia Ytuerate spoke his name. He sat up on a sudden.