“Gentlemen,” said Quentin to Carrahola and Cantarote; “to your homes, and let him save himself who can!”
Each began to run, and the three men escaped through the narrow alleyways.
The next afternoon Quentin went to the Casino. The newspapers spoke of the battle of the day before as an epic; a ruffian known as El Mochuelo, had been found in the street with concussion of the brain, and a contusion on his head; besides this, there were pools of blood in the street. According to the newspaper reports, passions had been at a white heat. Immediately after the description of the fight, followed the news that the notable poet Cornejo had been a victim of an attack by persons unknown.
“They must have beaten him badly,” thought Quentin.
He went to Cornejo’s house and found him in bed, his head covered with bandages, and smelling of arnica.
“What’s the matter?” asked Quentin.
“Can’t you see? They gave me the devil of a beating!”
“They tried to do it to me yesterday, but I knocked a few of them down.”
“Well, don’t be overconfident.”
“No, I’m not; I carry a pistol in each pocket, and I can’t tell you what would happen to the man who comes near me.”