Chapter Nineteen.
A Quiet Street.
I was not so confident of being able to keep my promise, as I stepped out into the sunlight, and saw a little before me the man who was to be my antagonist.
He stood six feet in his russet boots, with a frame that seemed as sinewy, as herculean. He had all the look of a vieux sabreur; and I knew he would insist upon the sword for his weapon.
A Mexican makes but a poor fight with firearms. They are too noisy for taking life—in the way he oft wishes to take it. I was certain my challenger would choose the sword.
By the etiquette of the duello, I might have insisted upon having the choice; but I was too angry to stand upon punctilios.
The Cathedral of Puebla stands upon a raised dais—with a stone stairway along its façade, and around three sides. Down this the stranger preceded me—having already descended several of the steps before I came out.
At the bottom he paused to await me; and there, for the first time, I had a fair chance of scrutinising him.
Forty, but with that tough, terse figure that betokens a man who has passed his life in energetic action, and whose nerves have never been a day out of training.