“Exactly, _señor_.” “Even now, I presume, they are watching from the mission buildings to see how I face you. It is expected that I’ll run you away, _señor_, or run you through.” “Either will be difficult, I fear.” “Yet I have my position to maintain, _señor_, and must attempt one or the other. It would suit me better to have you out of the way. If I can accomplish that myself, I may gain in the estimation of those at the mission. If I fail, there are friends of mine----” “Why waste language, _señor_?” the caballero wanted to know. “Will you pack up and leave, then? Will you go back up El Camino Real and attend to your own affairs?” “I must decline, _señor_. Your own removal from this vale of tears would please me, understand.” As he spoke, the caballero threw aside his zarape; his opponent did likewise. Face to face they stood, blades out, sleeves turned back, both grim, determined. The neophyte crouched half a score of feet away, watching every move the men before him made. Men crowded the plaza wall, others came running from the orchard, frailes knelt in prayer, but none approached down the slope, for here was a matter to be settled between two gentlemen without interruption from another source. In the window of the guest house, Señorita Anita Fernandez turned quickly and hid her face on the ample bosom of Señorita Vallejo, and put fingers in her ears. The two men engaged, neither a novice at the art of battling with a blade, each firm of wrist and quick of foot and eye. Now the caballero advanced, now he retreated. The steel hissed and sang and rang aloud. The minutes passed. Perspiration streamed from the faces of the combatants; their breaths were expelled in quick explosions. “’Tis a pretty battle!” cried Señor Lopez from the top of the wall. “Have at him, Rojerio Rocha, for your own honour and your lady’s fair name! Flinch, dog of a Fly-by-Night! Ah----” The old _señor’s_ heir began a furious attack, the caballero fell back step by step. And then the recovery came! What he had done before was but clumsy fencing to what the caballero did now. He had felt out his man, he knew every trick at his command, he was ready now to put an end to it. His teeth were sunk into his lips, and his eyes flashed as he drove his opponent backward. The neophyte gave a cry of fear and crept along the ground, fearing for his master’s life. Something flashed in his hand. The caballero, from the corner of his eye, observed it in time. Once his blade went aside, to tear through the neophyte’s shoulder, and returned to the engagement in time to ward off a thrust from the other man. “Treachery, eh?” the caballero cried, above the ring of the blades. “Your dog of a neophyte fights for you, eh? That is the sort of man you are?” “He did it by no order of mine,” the other gasped.