“You need not tell me the Americans are ever brave!” came scornfully from Gonzalez’s lips. “They are all cowards! It is a nation of cowards.”
“But remember how the young American rushed into the ring and slew the bull,” said one of the others, who plainly spoke with the deliberate purpose of giving the scar-faced rascal an opportunity to insult the listening lad.
“Bah!” cried Gonzalez. “He did not know the danger. He saw us playing with the bull, and he thought the creature harmless.”
“But he faced the bull’s charge, and he killed the animal with a single stroke.”
“Which was fortunate for him, and it was all a mistake. He was so frightened that he closed his eyes and struck. Why, he was white as a ghost, and he trembled all over when the bull fell dead. It was with the greatest difficulty that he kept on his feet. It is certain that he came near fainting. Brave! Why, he is the biggest coward that ever lived! He is a cur!”
Frank felt the hot blood flushing his cheeks, and yet he held himself in check, knowing the fellow was seeking to draw him into a quarrel. To resent the insult would be a play into Gonzalez’s hands.
One of the banderillero’s companions laughed harshly.
“You have a very poor opinion of Americans, señor,” he said: “but I think you are right.”
“I know I am right,” Gonzalez asserted, more offensively than before. “Now, if that brave American were here at this moment, and he should hear me call him a coward and a cur—as I do!—he would not dare stand up like a man and resent it.”
“I think you are mistaken, señor.”