THE SWORD DUEL IN THE EAST INDIAN BUNGALOW.
Surrounded by a thousand mementoes of India as he was, in this quaint
bungalow on the Rathmines road, Roderic Owen might well have been
pardoned had he allowed imagination to have full sway, and looked for
some offended satellite of great Buddha to appear with the advent of
that bull-like roar.
But it chanced that he knew the sound of old, since the general and
himself had many times enjoyed each other's society in San Juan when
Cupid ruled the camp.
He was not particularly anxious to meet the Porto Rican officer just
yet, but being a man who never showed the white feather when face to
face with trouble, he wheeled to confront the hurricane just entering.
General Porfidio was a big man, and having a bushy head of white hair
his appearance was unusually ferocious, nor did his fierce military
mustache and his shaggy eyebrows serve to temper the naturally
bellicose looks which a provident Nature had bestowed upon him.
The roar with which he usually spoke accorded well with his whole
disposition.
And yet Roderic had seen this terrible man of war become as meek as a
little lamb under the thumb of a pretty girl's hand--Georgia knew how
to pull his heart strings and bring him to his knees.
He evidently entered the room in a tremendous whirl of excitement.
"_Por Dios!_ so, I have discovered the villain. Roblado swore he saw
him enter here, and ran to inform me three blocks away. I have galloped
every foot of the distance, and with each yard I swore a fearful oath
to have his life, that of the spy who seeks to ruin me in my own house.
You hear, sir--I have come to rid the world of a viper. And yet, I
would not have it said that Porfidio de Brabant, with the blood of
cavaliers in his veins, descended so low as to strike an unarmed man.
Turn about, Yankee, and you will see many swords upon the wall behind
you. The light still remains good enough to allow us a few minutes
grace. It is all I want--I have not learned my lesson for nothing.
What! do you then refuse to defend yourself--then by Our Lady I shall
be obliged to spur you on with the flat of my good blade, until I can
beat some little courage into your shrinking soul."
He made an aggressive movement, as if about to instantly carry his plan
into action.
This was more than Roderic could stand.
He was a fighter by nature, and no man ever had to shake a red flag in
front of his eyes in order to arouse his ambition.
Even in the present instance, though he had no desire to meet the
general in an affair of honor, the awful threat made by the Porto Rican
was too much for his Irish blood.
Consequently he turned to the wall, remembering that his eye had
been involuntarily attracted toward a particularly inviting looking
slender Hindoo sword made of the finest steel in the world, tempered
in Damascus, where the art has been guarded as a secret, lo, these
hundreds of years, since the turbulent time of Saracens and Crusaders
in fact.
Quickly Roderic snatched this blade from the wall.
It felt like a reliable weapon, and he no sooner clasped his eager
fingers about the hilt than he knew he could depend upon it to the
death.
Having thus armed himself he whirled about, for the dire threat of the
old soldier still stung his ears, and he was mortally afraid the other
might in his anger carry it out.
To a proud man like Owen, such an indignity would be worse than the
danger of meeting an attack--and especially in _her_ presence.
Thus, when able to flash the jewel hilted East Indian blade around so
as to cover any possible attack from the old martinet, Roderic gave
vent to an exclamation of satisfaction.
At home with a sword, he felt able to render a good account of his
stewardship, since he had long taken a peculiar pride in learning the
ways in which various nations handle the weapon--a grizzled old Turk
had given him points in Constantinople--from an Algerian desert rover
he had learned how they fought with the steel when robbers attacked the
caravans--an expert Hindoo juggler who could place an apple on a man's
cranium and with a fierce downward stroke sever it completely without
harming a hair of the other's head had taken pleasure in teaching him
a few tricks, while American cavalrymen had made him an adept with
the sabre, and a French fencing master exhausted his _repertoire_ in
endeavoring to beat down his defense.
Taken in all, young Owen had no reason to fear any harm when thus given
a blade with which to defend himself.
Nor did he mean to demolish the old veteran, with whom he had many
times smoked the pipe of peace and good fellowship, exchanging stories
of world wide experiences.
All he desired was a chance to defend himself against furious attacks.
Evidently Don Porfidio had not as yet recognized the man in the parlor
of his bungalow.
For this, the growing shadows of coming dusk, together with the fury
that made his eyes dance in their sockets might be held accountable,
rather than any infirmities of coming age.
When the old fire-eater comprehended what the other's action really
meant he gave utterance to a snort of satisfaction.
Nothing could please him better than a chance to air his masterly
ability with the trenchant blade he had so proudly carried at his
side--opportunities for so doing had of late been too few and far
between to fully satisfy the vainglorious ambition of the soldier.
He had actually seen much stirring work in the military service of
Spain, and was seasoned by a long and hazardous career.
"_Carramba!_" he cried, "have we then at last one fellow who shirks not
the fray? Here's to your lung and an easier way of taking breath."
But somewhat to his surprise the unknown parried his quivering stroke
with the utmost ease, and still stood there on guard.
Then the old soldier waxed wroth.
He had been stunned at first, when his blade was so contemptuously
turned aside, for this action was not according to the usual way Dame
Fortune served such a son of Mars.
Of course he gave utterance to a Spanish execration, such as falls so
readily from the lips of these excitable people.
Then he hastily examined his sword, which was found to be in quite as
good condition as before, proving that the fault did not lie in that
quarter at least.
Having awakened to the knowledge that he had a job cut out before him
that would require his utmost endeavors, Don Porfidio braced his bulky
frame for a prodigious effort.
As the two antagonists stood there facing one another, like a pair of
Roman gladiators about to do battle royal the girl suddenly darted
between.
"You must not, shall not fight!" she exclaimed.
The general let out a roar.
"Stand back, on your life, rash girl. This is a business in which I
will brook no interference."
"But uncle, dear uncle, you do not know----"
"I know all I desire, and I shall make it my solemn duty to teach this
rascal a lesson he will never forget. Therefore I command you, Georgia,
to leave the room!"
"No, no, it would be a crime," she continued, endeavoring to cling to
his sword arm.
But the testy old don's fighting blood was up, and in such a condition
he would stand no interference even from one whom he loved so dearly.
So with his left arm he swept the frail figure of the San Juan belle
aside, and at the same time thrust out with his sword.
The weapon met that of Roderic eagerly advanced to receive the thrust,
and immediately there followed a clashing and rasping as steel
continued to smite its like.
Georgia, finding her efforts to keep the two men apart futile, fell
back in dismay from the flash of the writhing swords.
The spectacle appeared to fascinate her for a brief time, so that with
clasped hands she stood and gazed, her breath coming in gasps, and with
each breath a fervent prayer that the Holy Virgin would intervene to
prevent these two men, each of whom was so dear to her, from shedding
one another's blood.
Then of a sudden she uttered a bubbling cry--it was not because one or
the other had gained the least advantage, for they were still at it,
hammer and tongs, the giant man of war trying all his tricks and clever
thrusts with disheartening results--a bright thought had flashed into
the girl's bewildered brain.
Since Don Porfidio refused to hearken when she attempted to explain
matters, perhaps the same hoped-for cessation of active hostilities
might be attained through another means.
"A light--let me find a lamp--please Heaven it may not be too late, and
these hot heads slaughter each other while I am gone," was what she
cried.
No one noticed her disappearance through the door where hung the Bagdad
curtains, for both of the gentlemen had their attention fully occupied
in another quarter.
When a ferocious old military hero with all his long pent-up love for
bloody scenes bursting forth is diligently thrusting right and left
with a keen pointed sword, his eagerness increasing with each and every
defeat of his plans, there is little chance to observe what may be
passing even in the confines of the same apartment.
That was Roderic's condition.
True, he considered himself in no actual danger, unless from an
accidental thrust, but all the same the valorous old don was sending
them in at white heat, and as the gloaming made it difficult to see
with exactness, there was need of great caution.
The sparks flew whenever the hostile blades struck violently together,
and taken altogether it was about as pretty and interesting a picture
as one would wish to see.
When he found his favorite blows turned aside with so masterly a hand,
the general's rage began to partially give way to admiration, for he
was an ardent lover of fine sword play no matter where found, in Arab,
Moor or Cossack.
He still continued to bellow, for it was a part of his nature to do
so, but mingled with his furious phrases were cries that betokened
amazement, delight, suspicion.
Perhaps he recognized something familiar about the method employed by
his antagonist in defending himself.
Swordsmen have their peculiar tactics or individualities, that crop
out strongly, and doubtless in the good old days when Senor Owen was
a welcome visitor at the hacienda of Don Porfidio the two may have
crossed blades occasionally, if only to illustrate some point in a
story.
In due time the Porto Rican must have puzzled out the solution of the
mystery.
He was not given time just now.
Roderic, finding that the other was making a most wicked series of
lunges at his heart, and fearful lest some accident might occur that
would place him at the mercy of Don Porfidio, concluded to wind up the
matter in a manner that was more to his liking.
So he let loose a few cards which he had, figuratively speaking, been
holding up his sleeve--in other words he let out an extra supply of
ability and forced the fighting.
It was all up with the general.
He knew full well he was in the hands of a master, and that while
the duel was fated to be cut as short as he wished, the outcome might
hardly be to his liking.
The old don had been over confident, and he now fell into something
like a panic.
True, he battled on with just as much vim as before, but desperation
nerved his arm rather than the old time enthusiasm.
When Roderic discovered his chance he whipped the other's supple blade
out of his nerveless hand with consummate ease.
Don Porfidio uttered a cry of rage and stupefaction.
"_Carramba!_ you have done it--now take your revenge, Senor Spy!" he
ejaculated, despairingly.
He folded his arms across his quivering chest and faced what he
supposed would be immediate death without flinching.
Roderic drew back his sword, but the old warrior made no appeal for
mercy.
A Spaniard may appear cruel according to Anglo-Saxon ways of looking at
things, but no race of men has shown more splendid courage in battle or
upon the terrible unknown seas of the fifteenth century.
Roderic turning hung his East Indian blade once more upon the wall,
doubtless to the sore amazement of the soldier.
It was at this juncture Georgia came hastily into the room bearing an
antique lamp which her trembling fingers had succeeded in lighting.
Upon her face was an anxious, almost terrified expression, as though
she half expected to find one or both of the men lying there in their
blood.
To see them standing there unarmed was a joyous revelation.
As for the old soldier, the truth flashed upon him with a shock, when
his eyes beheld a face he long had known.
"Holy Father, is it _you_ Senor Owen? Dolt, idiot that I was not to
recognize the familiar swing of your cunning sword arm. I am pleased to
meet you again--as, I am furiously angry because all these months you
have neglected this sweet flower, and caused her much suffering."
Thus he rambled on, halting between his natural affection for the young
American, yet holding back on account of race enmity, since Spanish and
American arms now clashed.
Roderic knew he had a difficult piece of work cut out for him.
It had been child's play to disarm the old gentleman, but to avoid an
open rupture must tax his ingenuity.
Perhaps, with the help of the girl it might be made possible.
At any rate he was bound to try for the sake of peace in the family.
"General, that I have lost the sweet friendship, and society of your
niece and ward during all these months is my misfortune. She has, like
an angel of light, forgiven me. It was all a terrible mistake, caused
by jealousy on my part.
"You as a man who has seen the world in all its phases can understand
my position. I am humiliated in her presence. We expect to forget all
that is bitter in the past, and start afresh, for no other has held
the cords to my heart save Georgia--though I believed her lost to me
forever, I have been always faithful to our love.
"General, our countries are at war, but that does not make us enemies.
I would esteem it an honor to shake your hand again and hear you say
you do not bear me malice where she has forgiven."
The veteran was touched.
He was human, and it flattered him to think that this young American,
who had just disarmed him with such ease, should still yearn for his
friendly interest.
Don Porfidio was genial despite his exceeding gruff ways.
"_Cospita, hombre_, you speak fairly. If the chit of a girl has
forgiven what right have I to hold out, though truth to tell I have
made many a vow to the Virgin to flay your back when next we met, on
account of your wretched flight. Since you ask it so sincerely, and
there was always a warm corner of my tough old heart for you Senor
Roderic, I see no reason why we should not shake hands and resume our
former friendship."
This pleased Owen, who was just in the act of putting out his hand when
a rough voice outside was heard calling:
"Senor de Brabant, have you slain the pig of a Yankee spy--is it safe
to enter?"
At which Don Porfidio uttered a choking exclamation and letting his
hand drop to his side stared at the face of the young American as
though the truth had flashed through his brain like an electric bolt.