Apologies, however profuse, do not count for much with hot blooded Spaniards, with whom an insult demands a blow.
Knowing this Roderic fully counted on prompt action on the part of the ex toreador.
Julio had met the rush of many a maddened bull in the arena, and could himself do a little of that same when the occasion arose.
He was naturally a trifle confused by the unexpected move on Roderic's part, and this delay, short though it was, gave the other a chance to pull himself together, to put the girl out of his mind altogether and face Julio.
The latter was trembling with fury, and thus far weakened his cause just when he needed all coolness and a clear vision.
He rattled out a shower of expletives, each one of which was as hot as a live coal; but even this did not appear to annihilate his enemy.
Julio had not been entirely idle while thus giving vent to his spleen—the glint of steel in his hand told Owen that he had snatched out a ready dagger, possibly concealed in his voluminous scarlet sash, and was ready to sheathe it in the bosom of the unknown who had thrown down the gauntlet.
Roderic saw the point, and had already gone him one better, since he held a blade more than a match for Julio's dagger, and moreover, knew how to handle it like a juggler of India.
"Senor, it was a mistake—I am ready to make ample apologies or fight—just as you decide," he said in Spanish.