"Halt, señor assassin!" I commanded. "Take a step, and I shoot you down like a dog!"
"Peste!" he cried, lowering his sword point. "It is the Americano physician."
"And you are Medina!" I muttered between my hard-set teeth—"Medina, the aide-de-camp and bravo of Salcedo,—Medina the assassin."
"Peste!" he repeated. "It is a lie."
"You had better pray than swear," I warned him. "The trigger of my pistol is set. The slightest touch of my finger, and you go straight to hell."
"Santisima Virgen!" he protested, a trace of concern beneath the continued anger of his tone. "You do not comprehend."
"I comprehend that you, an officer in the service of His Most Catholic Majesty, sought to stab me in the back without warning. It was vile—it was cowardly! Can you name a single reason why I should not shoot you?"
"You do not comprehend!" he insisted. "I mistook you for one of those whom I have warned."
"Mistook me?" I repeated, catching at the chance for an explanation. It is not pleasant to think of a gentleman and officer turned assassin.
"Yes," he answered. "I have made this my privilege. Any man in Chihuahua who wishes to serenade Señorita Vallois has my pledge that I will kill him."