“Satisfaction, then.”
“That to your heart’s content.”
“I shall have it so. Your card, sir?”
“There; take it. Yours?”
The bits of cardboard are exchanged; after which De Lara, casting another glance up to the azotea—where he sees nothing but blank wall—turns his horse’s head; then spitefully plying the spur, gallops back down the avenue—his comrade close following.
Calderon has not deemed it incumbent upon him to demand a card from Cadwallader. Nor has the latter thought it necessary to take one from him; the mid is quite contented with that playful prod with his dirk.
The young officers enter the house, in cheerful confidence. They have lost nothing by the encounter, and those inside will still smilingly receive them—as indeed they do.