There was an interval of silence, as that of calm preceding storm. It was broken by the guest latest arrived saying a few words to his host, but in calm, dignified tone; an apology for having unceremoniously entered the room.
“No need to apologise,” promptly rejoined Don Ignacio. “You are here by my invitation, Señor Don Florencio, and my humble home is honoured by your presence.”
The Hidalgo blood, pure in Valverde’s veins, had boiled up at seeing a man insulted under his roof.
“Thanks,” said the young Irishman.
“And now, sir,” he continued, turning to Santander and regarding him with a look of recovered coolness, “having made my apology, I require yours.”
“For what?” asked Santander, counterfeiting ignorance.
“For using language that belongs to the bagnios of New Orleans, where, I doubt not, you spend most part of your time.”
Then, suddenly changing tone and expression of face, he added—
“Cur of a Creole! you must take back your words!”
“Never! It’s not my habit to take, but to give; and to you I give this!”