“He must die?”
“Teniente! Turn your head round and look me straight in the face.”
“I am doing so, colonel. Why do you wish me?”
“You see that scar on my cheek?”
“Certainly I do.”
“Don Valerian Miranda did not give the wound that’s left it, but he was partly the cause of my receiving it. But for him the duel would have ended differently. It’s now twelve months gone since I got that gash, at the same time losing three of my teeth. Ever since the spot has felt aflame as if hell’s fire were burning a hole through my cheek. It can only be extinguished by the blood of those who kindled it. Miranda is one of them. You’ve asked the question, ‘Must he die?’ Looking at this ugly scar, and into the eye above it, I fancy you will not think it necessary to repeat the question.”
“But how is it to be done without scandal? As you yourself have said, it won’t do for us to murder the man outright. We may be held to account—possibly ourselves called before a court-martial. Had he made resistance, and given us a pretext—”
“My dear ayadante, don’t trouble yourself about pretexts. I have a plan which will serve equally as well—my particular purpose, much better. As I’ve promised, you shall know it in good time—participate in its execution. But, come, we’ve been discoursing serious matters till I’m sick of them. Let’s talk of something lighter and pleasanter—say, woman. What think you of my charmer?”
“The Dona Adela?”
“Of course. Could any other charm me? Even you, with your heart of flint, should feel sparks struck out of it at the sight of her.”