"Did you take aim at it?" asked the astonished Jarocho.
"Of course," I replied, sharply; "and this will serve to show you that it is not altogether safe to jest with people you don't know."
At these words the Jarocho stopped his horse, and, straightening himself in his saddle, placed one hand upon his haunch, and pulled his straw hat over his eyes with the other. He then cried out, "Oigajte, ñor deconocio.[1] I am of a caste and of a country where words are few, and whose actions are prompt. I did not mean to offend you; "but if you seek a quarrel, I shall not flinch. In spite of the disparity of our weapons, I am not afraid to try which of us is the better man."
He hummed a tune, drew his sharp sword from the leathern belt which encircled his waist, and flourished it in the air. I likewise drew my sabre.
The idea of crossing swords, mounted as we were on such sorry jades, was so absurd, that we at last burst into a mutual roar of laughter, which ended the matter. I then hastened to explain to the Jarocho that I had no inimical feeling toward him. He held out his hand.
"I am glad you are satisfied," he replied, "for I should have been very sorry to have an enemy in one so brave as you appear to be, as at present I have a more serious quarrel on my hands."
We then rode along together quite amicably. To turn the conversation, recalling, besides, to my recollection the parting words of the two horsemen at the cross-road, I said, in a careless kind of a tone, "Isn't there to be a fandango at Manantial to-morrow?"
- ↑ Listen, Sir Stranger.
