Captain Ramón cursed and charged, but Señor Zorro received him and drove him back, and so held his position. The perspiration was standing out on the captain's forehead in great globules. His breath was coming heavily from between his parted lips. His eyes were bright and bulging.
"Fight, weakling!" the highwayman taunted him. "This time I am not attacking from behind! If you have prayers to say, say them—for your time grows short!"
The ringing blades, the shifting feet on the floor, the heavy breathing of the combatants and of the two spectators of this life-and-death struggle were the only sounds in the room. His excellency sat far forward on his chair, his hands gripping the edges of it so that his knuckles were white.
"Kill me this highwayman!" he shrieked. "Use your good skill, Ramón! At him!"
Captain Ramón rushed again, calling into play his last bit of strength, fencing with what skill he could command. His arms were as lead; his breath was fast. He thrust, he lunged—and made a mistake of a fraction of an inch!
Like the tongue of a serpent, Señor Zorro's blade shot in. Thrice it darted forward, and upon the fair brow of Ramón, just between the eyes, there flamed suddenly a red, bloody letter Z!
"The Mark of Zorro!" the highwayman cried. "You wear it forever now, comandante!"
Señor Zorro's face became more stern. His blade shot in again and came out dripping red. The comandante gasped and slipped to the floor.
"You have slain him!" the governor cried. "You have taken his life, wretch!"
"Ha! I trust so! The thrust was through the heart, excellency! He never will insult a señorita again!"