Men called out to one another and came hurrying pell mell to the scene—fond of cock fights and the meeting of bull and toreadors in the arena, these fellows hailed a street brawl as a special dispensation of Providence on their behalf.
Already a ring was forming, a ring composed of dark visaged men, some Spanish soldiers, others natives of the noble city of San Juan, but all desirous of observing the exciting drama that was being played as if especially for their particular benefit.
All of which was bad for Roderic.
No matter what measure of success followed his engagement with Julio, he was apt to find it a serious matter to escape an encounter with these hangers on, whose sympathies seemed to be with the dancer, judging from the way in which his name was coupled with cries of direct encouragement.
These same bravos urged Julio to make a third vicious attack where prudence might have suggested that he cover his weakness by falling back on the defense.
Roderic thought the farce had gone far enough—he was desirous of leaving the locality ere it became too hot for a man of his description; and besides, there was at least a small chance that this impassioned athlete who struck out so blindly, regardless of his own uncovered condition, might inflict an accidental wound.
So he locked horns with the Spaniard and tripped him up.
Julio never knew how it was done, for he was a pigmy in the hands of a master.
He felt some tremendous power seize upon his person so that he was borne irresistibly backward; at the same time a sudden acute thrill of agony in his right wrist caused him to drop his knife as though it had been scorching his fingers.
"Senor Julio," said the voice in his ear, "again I say it was all a mistake—again I apologize for my hasty action. You have defended your honor as became a true son of Spain! There is no need of our seeking each other's life. I am satisfied that I have met a brave man. Let us separate in peace."