combatants stood face to face, the villagers surrounded them, and they waited for the signal to begin. If the stranger was as skillful as he was brave, Calros would find in him a tough opponent, and the issue might probably be unsuccessful to this ardent lover of Sacramenta. The word was given, and the combat commenced. Their blows were so furiously put that it looked more like an encounter for life and death than a contest for the first blood.[1] Sometimes the swords cut the air with a mournful sough; sometimes they struck one another with a shrill clang. It was evident, however, that the stranger looked more to the honor of his antagonist than to his life. Now, in combats of this sort, the great point is to guard the hand. A wounded hand is the greatest stain upon the reputation of the most renowned swordsman. The loss of life even is not such a disgrace. Unluckily, the red ribbons, fluttering at the hilt of the unknown's sword, protected his hand more securely than even the best steel guard could have done. It was to deck the beautiful hair of Sacramenta that Calros was exposing his life; it was to guard these ribbons from stain that the Jarocho stood so grimly on his defense. In the course of the combat the swordsmen had now gone over a considerable space of ground. The tumultuous crowd wavered to and fro, and followed the two combat ants as they were successively displaced. Neither had yet received a scratch, when the sword of the stranger, striking that of Calros, glided along the whole length of the blade. A moment after, my host's fingers being cut, he was just about to drop his machete, but a rude parry he made to save his arm failed, and the
- ↑ The Jarochos know nothing of scientific fencing, and trust altogether to strength and agility of body.
