In the agony of his dilemma he put the question to the gentleman who, beyond all doubt, had restrained him from committing manslaughter.
The latter was an entire stranger to him—never seen him before. He was a man of less than thirty years of age, wearing a broad-brimmed hat upon his head, a cloth jacket, slashed calzoneras, and a red crape scarf around his waist—in short, the ranchero costume of the country. Still, there was a military bearing about him that corresponded to the title by which the lancer captain had addressed him.
“Caballero,” he said in reply, “if your own safety be of any consequence to you I should advise you to take no further notice of the incident that has arisen, however much it may have exasperated you, as no doubt it has done.”
“Pardon me, señor; but not for all the world would I follow your advice—not for my life. I am an American—a Kentuckian. We do not take blows without giving something of the same in return. I must have redress.”
“If you seek it by the law I may as well warn you, you won’t have much chance of finding it.”
“I know that. The law! I did not think of such a thing. I am a gentleman; I suppose this Captain Uraga supposes himself to be the same, and will not refuse to give me the usual satisfaction.”
“He may refuse, and very likely will, on the plea of your being a stranger—only a barbarian, a Tejano or gringo, as he has put it.”
“I am alone here—what am I to do?”
The Kentuckian spoke half in soliloquy, his countenance expressing extreme chagrin.
“Fuez, señor!” responded the Mexican colonel, “if you’re determined on a desafio I think I might arrange it. I feel that I am myself a little compromised by my interference; and if you’ll accept of me for your second, I think I can answer for it that Captain Uraga will not dare to deny us.”