But they are soon near enough to know that such is not their destination. For, despite the enshrouding dust, they have no difficulty in identifying the individuals before them. The horses are the same seen that morning, saddled and bridled, in front of Don Gregorio’s house. Two of the riders are Carmen Montijo and Iñez Alvarez; the other two—
At this point conjecture terminates. De Lara, certain, and no longer able to control himself, cries out:
“Carajo! it’s they returning from their excursion—paired off, as I supposed they would be! So, Calderon, you have your chance sooner than you expected. And without seeking it—a lucky omen! There’s your rival, riding by the side of your sweetheart, and pouring soft speech into her ear! Now’s your time to set things straight—insult him to your heart’s content. I feel like giving a fresh affront to mine.”
He draws rein, bringing his horse to a halt. The ganadero does the same. Scanning the equestrians ahead, they see them two and two, each pair some ten or twelve paces apart from the other. Crozier and Carmen are in the advance, Cadwallader and Iñez behind.
De Lara looks not at the latter couple; his eyes are all upon the former, staring with fixed intensity, full of jealous fire, in a glare such as only a tiger might give, on seeing Carmen Montijo turn towards her escorting cavalier, and bend over—he to her—till their heads are close together, and their lips seemingly in contact!
“Carrai! they’re kissing!” he exclaims, in a tone of bitter exasperation.
He can bear it no longer. With a shout, half angry, half anguished, he digs the spur deep, and dashes forward.
The clattering of hoofs behind first warns Cadwallader, who is nearest to the noise. For, up to this time, the lovers, absorbed in sweet converse, dreamed not of danger.
The young Welshman, glancing back, sees what it is, at the same time hears De Lara’s wild cry. Intuitively he understands that some outrage is intended—a repetition of the morning’s work, with doubtless something more.
Quickly he draws his dirk: not now to be used in sport, for the mere pricking of a horse, but in serious earnest, to be buried in the body of a man—if need be. This resolve can be read in his attitude, in his eyes, in his features. These no longer bent in the laugh of a reckless boy, but the rigid, resolute determination of a man. Badly as he sits his horse, it will not do now to dash against him. The collision may cost life—in all likelihood, that of the aggressor.