"I choose your own weapons, you coward!"
"Little man, over all this country, from sea to sea, there's a flag"—the Blackguard took off his hat—"which does not allow any nonsense. We're not in the United States just now. I beg your pardon, I, Don José Santa Maria Sebastian Iago las Morẽnas de la Mancha, otherwise known as the Blackguard, beg your pardon. Come, don't be a silly ass!"
It was not what La Mancha said, nor the grace with which he spoke, the certain scornful simplicity as of a great aristocrat, which moved the Englishman. Rather it was the wonderful tender light in the man's eyes.
Ramsay's hand went out instinctively, and the two men were friends.
CHAPTER V
"Do you know my side of life—London?" asked the Tenderfoot haughtily, as he followed La Mancha by a corkscrew trail up the lower foothills.
"Rather," said the Blackguard,—"the mare's a great pal of mine."
"The Lord Mayor, I suppose, you mean?"
"No, the grey mare—horse's old woman, you know. Besides, I know the place well. The Grand Trunk passes through it; there's quite a station."