The Conde was in that state of unreasonable humour which takes offence at every word.
“His ancestors, indeed!” he exclaimed. “Why do you remind me of them? Have they done more than I?”
“All Spain speaks of their valour.”
“Then Spain unjustly lavishes on them praise due to me!”
“The king acknowledges it in the honour he has conferred on my person!”
“It is your old age, not your merit, that moved him; had he thought of merit, he would have given the office to me!”
“The best proof of where he considered merit to be, is seen by looking where he conferred the reward!”
“You mean to say, that I have no merit!” cried the Count, now losing all command of himself; and before Don Diego could show him that was not what he had said, he dealt him a blow on the face, and at the same time threw his sword on the ground, to show that it was a premeditated affront, and he had done it rather than afford him the satisfaction of a fair fight.
It is hardly possible in these days to realize the full extent of such an insult. In the semi-barbarous code which a life of continual warfare kept up, nothing but the life-blood of the offender could wipe out such a stain. Rodrigo came in while his father was yet chafing under the affront, which was not only regarded as personal, but as an injury to his whole house and lineage. It needed only to tell young Rodrigo, to rouse his choler, for the blood of his ancestors flowed warm within him, and young as he was, he knew that upon him devolved the duty of asserting the honour of his house. His father had no need to urge him. “You shall see, father, that I am not unworthy of the blood I inherit from you.”
“But there is one thing I have to tell you; yet one thing, which is like to cool your courage more than the fear of essaying your first arms against a tried warrior. Know that he who, with the five darts of his right hand, struck through the grey beard of my old age, was none other than——”