Again the Galician struck heavily with his huge fists, and again French, easily parrying, tapped him once, twice, thrice, where he would, drawing tears to the man's eyes. The Galician paused with a scornful exclamation.
"He says that's nothing," interpreted Kalman. "You can't hurt a man that way."
"Can't, eh? Tell him to come on, but to look out."
Again the Galician came forward, evidently determined to land one blow at least. But French, taking the blow on his guard, replied with a heavy left-hander fair on the Galician's chest, lifted him clear off his feet and hurled him breathless against his load of hay. The man recovered himself, grinning sheepishly, nodding his head vigorously and talking rapidly.
"That is enough. He says he would like to learn how to do that. That is better than a club," interpreted Kalman.
"Tell him that his people must learn to fight without club or knife. We won't stand that in this country. It lands them in prison or on the gallows."
Kalman translated, his own face fiery red meanwhile, and his own appearance one of humiliation. He was wondering how much of his own history this man knew.
"Good-by," said French, holding out his hand to the Galician.
The man took it and raised it to his lips.
"He says he thanks you very much, and he wishes you to forget his badness."