“Lieutenant Cary,” said Sir Richard, in a stern voice, “the wine has surely made you forget yourself!”
“As sober as yourself, most worshipful knight; but if you want a Spanish song, here's one; and a very scurvy one it is, like its subject—
“Don Desperado
Walked on the Prado,
And there he met his enemy.
He pulled out a knife, a,
And let out his life, a,
And fled for his own across the sea.”
And he bowed low to the Spaniard.
The insult was too gross to require any spluttering.
“Senor Cary, we meet?”
“I thank your quick apprehension, Don Guzman Maria Magdalena Sotomayor de Soto. When, where, and with what weapons?”
“For God's sake, gentlemen! Nephew Arthur, Cary is your guest; do you know the meaning of this?”
St. Leger was silent. Cary answered for him.
“An old Irish quarrel, I assure you, sir. A matter of years' standing. In unlacing the senor's helmet, the evening that he was taken prisoner, I was unlucky enough to twitch his mustachios. You recollect the fact, of course, senor?”