"It looks to me," he swaggered, "like you and I were going to have a few words."
And immediately he added, as if he could read the thought of Zureda:
"They've been telling you I'm thick with Rafaela, and you're after the facts."
"Yes, that's it," answered the engineer.
"Well, they aren't lying. What's the use of lying? It's so, all right."
Then he held his peace and looked at Zureda. The engineer's eyes were usually big and black, but now by some strange miracle of rage they had become small and red. Neither man made any further speech. There was no need of any. All the words they might have hurled at each other would have been futile. Zureda recoiled a few steps and unsheathed his knife. The silversmith snicked open a big pocket blade.
They fell violently on each other. It was a prehistoric battle, body to body, savage, silent. Manolo was killed. He fell on his back, his face white, his mouth twisted in an unforgettable grimace of pain and hate.
The engineer ran away and was already crossing the bridge, when a woman who had been following him at a short distance began to cry:
"Catch him! Catch him! He's just killed a man!"
A couple of policemen, at the door of an inn, stopped Zureda. They arrested him and handcuffed him. He made no resistance.