"Cur of a Creole! you must take back your words!"
"Never! It's not my habit to take, but to give; and to you I give
this!"
So saying, he stepped straight up to the Irishman, and spat in his face.
Kearney's heart was on fire. His hand was already on the butt of his
pistol; but, glancing behind, he saw that pale appealing face, and with
an effort restrained himself, calmly saying to Santander--
"Calling yourself a gentleman, you will no doubt have a card and
address. May I ask you to favour me with it, as to-morrow I shall have
occasion to write to you? If a scoundrel such as you can boast of
having a friend, you may as well give him notice he will be needed.
Your card, sir!"
"Take it!" hissed the Creole, flinging his card on the table. Then
glaring around, as if his glance would annihilate all, he clutched hold
of his hat, bowed haughtily to Don Ignacio, looked daggers at his
daughter, and strode out into the street.
Though to all appearance defeated and humbled, he had in truth succeeded
in his design, one he had long planned and cherished to bring about,--a
duel with Kearney, in which his antagonist should be challenger. This
would give him the choice of weapons, which, as he well knew, would
ensure to him both safety and success. Without the certainty of this,
Carlos Santander would have been the last man to provoke such an
encounter; for, with all his air of _bravache_, he was the veriest of
cowards.