“Caramba,” said the Mexican, laying a hand upon the knife in his belt, “you shall pay for that, Englishman.”
‘You shall pay for that, Englishman.’
“When and how you will, señor. I always pay my debts.”
Then the captain broke in, in a strange way. First he put his hand behind him, and, drawing a large pistol from his pocket, he laid it by his plate.
“Señors, both,” he said in a soft voice and with a gentle smile, “I am loth to interfere in a quarrel of two esteemed passengers, but though I am only a poor sailor, it is my duty to see that there is no bloodshed on board this vessel. Therefore, much as I regret it, I shall be obliged to shoot dead the first man who draws a weapon,” and he cocked the pistol.
Now the Mexican scowled, and the Señor Strickland laughed outright, for it was a curious thing to hear a man with the face of a sheep growl and threaten like a wolf. Meanwhile I had risen, for this insult was more than I could bear.
“Señors,” I said, speaking in Spanish, “as I see that my presence is unwelcome to the majority of those here, I hasten to withdraw myself. But before I go I wish to say something, not by way of boasting, but to justify my friend, the English gentleman, in his action on my behalf. However well-born you may be, my descent is nobler and more ancient than yours, and therefore it should be no shame to you to sit at table with me. Least of all should the Don José Moreno, whose father is a murderer, a highway robber, and a man without shame, and whose mother was a half-bred mestiza slut, dare to be insolent to me who, as any Indian on board this ship can tell you, am a prince among my own people.”
Now every eye was fixed upon Don José. His sallow complexion turned to a whitish green as he listened to my words, and for a moment he sank back in his chair overcome with rage. Then he sprang up, once more gripping at his knife.
“You dog!” he gasped, “let me but come at you and I’ll cut your lying tongue out.”