The stranger—now a stranger no longer—drew himself up proudly, his dark eyes flashing defiance.
“Yes, señors, I am Esparto,” he admitted. “What would you have with me?”
In Spain the Valencians are known as very fierce and daring, being great fighters. It is necessary to kill a Valencian to conquer him.
Gonzalez, the scar-faced banderillero, seemed astounded for the moment, and then his face took on an expression of malignant satisfaction and triumph.
“So the revolutionist has returned to Madrid!” he sneered. “Did he come back to see Señorita Zuera? or did he come to arouse the people against the government?”
Esparto regarded the fellow with a look of deep contempt.
“It is nothing to you why I returned,” he declared. “You have neither the courage to become a revolutionist or to support the government. Gonzalez, you are a cur.”
The man with the scar writhed, showing his fierce teeth. His hand was thrust into his bosom, and the fingers closed around the haft of a very keen knife.
“You shall regret your words, Señor Esparto!” he grated. “I will take care that you do.”
“Take care that my knife does not split your cowardly heart, Señor Gonzalez. Keep beyond my reach.”