The red flushed into Santander’s face, and up over his forehead to the roots of his hair. He had told no one in Mexico, nor anywhere else, how he came by that ugly thing on his jaw, which beard could not conceal, and which he felt as a brand of Cain.
“It’s a scar of a sword-cut, your Excellency. I got it in a duel.”
“Ah! An honourable wound, then. But where?”
“In New Orleans.”
“Just the place for that sort of thing, as I know, having been there myself.” (Santa Anna had made a tour of the States, on parole, after the battle of San Jacinto, where he was taken prisoner.) “A very den of duellists is Nuevo Orleans; many of them maîtres d’éscrime. But who was your antagonist? I hope you gave him as good as you got.”
“I did, your Excellency; that, and more.”
“You killed him?”
“Not quite. I would have done so, but that my second interposed, and persuaded me to let him off.”
“Well, he hasn’t let you off, anyhow. What was the quarrel about? Carrai! I needn’t ask; the old orthodox cause—a lady, of course?”
“Nay; for once your Excellency is in error. Our desajio originated in something quite different.”