Sounds of violence followed, and a body fell to the ground. At this moment another figure came running down the staircase of the hotel, and rushing between the two, bent down to raise Lucía from the ground. Miranda gesticulated wildly, and in a hoarse, choking voice, stuttering with rage, and throwing every vestige of good-breeding to the winds, cried:
“Out of this, boor, intermeddler! What business is this—is this of yours? I struck—struck her, because I had—had—had the right to do so, and because I wished to do it. I am her husband. If you don’t take yourself off without delay I will cut—cut you in two. I will let daylight through you.”
If Sardiola had been a stone wall he could not have paid less heed to the words of Miranda than he did. With supreme indifference to his threats, and with Herculean force, he took the unconscious form in his arms, and thrusting the husband aside with a vigorous movement, carried his lovely burden up the stairs, not stopping till he had placed it on a sofa in the chamber of death. The madman followed close behind, but he controlled himself somewhat, seeing the warlike attitude and the flashing eyes of the Carlist ex-volunteer, who formed a rampart with his body for the defense of the insensible woman.
“If you do not take yourself off——” yelled Miranda, shaking his clenched fists.
“Take myself off!” repeated Sardiola quietly. “In order that you may strangle her at your ease. You ought to be ashamed of yourself to touch even so much as a thread of the Señorita’s garments.”
“But you—by what authority do you come here? Who has sent for you?” and Miranda’s countenance was convulsed with senile rage. “Begone!” he cried, with renewed anger, “or I shall find a weapon.” The bloodshot eyes of the husband glanced around the room until they fell upon the corpse, which preserved in the midst of all this violence its vague funereal smile. Sardiola, meantime, putting his hand into his waistcoat pocket, drew from it a medium-sized knife, probably used for cutting tobacco, and threw it at his adversary’s feet.
“There is one!” he cried, with the proud and chivalric air so frequently seen among the Spanish populace. “God has given me good hands with which to defend myself.”
Miranda stood for a moment, hesitating, then his rage boiled over again and he yelled out:
“I warn you that I will use it! I will use it! Go away, then, before I lose my patience.”
“Use it,” replied Sardiola, smiling disdainfully, “let us see how much courage there is behind those bold words—for, as for my leaving the room—unless the Señorita herself commands me to do so——”