The face was not a whit improved by the light of the sun. It looked as foul as I had fancied it, when seen under the shadow of the Saint. It told of an ill-spent past, and prognosticated an evil future.
What could the man want with me?
Under other circumstances I might have asked the question; but I did not then. I had a tolerably clear comprehension, of what had stimulated him to seek the desafio.
Like myself, he was in love with Mercedes Villa-Señor; like myself, ready to defy to the death whoever might present himself as a rival!
He had recognised me as such; a successful one—if his interpretation of her glances corresponded with my own.
I had no doubt about this being the reason for his having so deliberately provoked me.
“It’s rather public just here,” said he, on receiving me at the bottom of the stair. “The Piazza is not the best place for a purpose like ours.”
“Why not?” I asked, impatient to put an end to an episode that was causing me annoyance.
“Oh! only that we are likely to be interrupted by policemen, or patrols. Perhaps you would prefer it that way?”