He is too late: Cadwallader has come up; and, dropping down out of his saddle, as if from a ship’s shrouds, makes himself master of the weapon.
Disarmed, his glittering attire dust-bedaubed, De Lara stands in the middle of the road, irresolute, discomfited, conquered. He can do nothing now, save storm and threaten—interlarding his threats with curses—“Carajos!” spitefully pronounced.
The ladies, at Crozier’s request, have ridden on ahead, so that their ears are not offended.
After listening to the ebullition of his impotent spleen—Cadwallader all the while loudly laughing—Crozier, in serious tone, says:
“Don Francisco De Lara—for your card tells me that is your name—take a sailor’s advice: go quietly to your quarters; stow yourself out of sight; and stay there till your temper cools down. We don’t want you to walk. You shall have your horse, though not your shooting-iron. That I shall take care of myself, and may return it to you when next we meet. The same advice to you, sir,” he adds, addressing Calderon, who stands near equally cowed and crestfallen.
After dictating these humiliating conditions—which, nolens volens, the defeated bravos are obliged to accept—the young officers leap back into their saddles, and trot off to rejoin the ladies.
Having overtaken these, they continue their homeward ride, with no fear of its being again interrupted by a “golpe de caballo.”