“Then,” he said, “if you think it is all right, there is nothing more to be said. I’ll fight with the Frenchman, and I’ll fight with half the world if necessary, so that you’ll be convinced that I am worthy of your esteem.”
As he spoke he took Elena’s hand. But it lay so inert in his own that he was discouraged, and let go of it. She looked wearily towards the interior of the house where her husband was, indicating to Pirovani that he was to take his leave. The Italian made haste to obey, but while he moved towards the door he irritated her still more with words and gestures designed to inspire admiration for his devotion and heroism.
As soon as she was alone, Elena called shrilly for Sebastiana. The half-breed was slow in coming to her mistress. She had been escorting her former employer to the street.
“See if you can find the señor Watson!” ordered Elena hastily. “He can’t be so far away. Tell him to come back.”
The half-breed smiled, lowered her malicious eyes, and said innocently,
“It isn’t so easy to overtake him. He flew out of here like a shot from a gun. The devil must have been after him!”
When he left his former house Pirovani went to see Robledo, whom he found reading a book that was propped up against the kerosene lamp in the centre of the table. When the Spaniard saw his caller he greeted him with exclamations and reproaches.
“What got into you? Why do a thing like that?... A man of your years and reputation!... You’re not a fifteen-year-old fighting for your sweetheart!”
The Italian rejected this admonition with a haughty gesture, judging it rather tardy. Then he said solemnly, and as if his own words intoxicated his vanity,
“I am fighting a duel to the death with Captain Canterac, and I want you and Moreno to be my seconds.”