Julio had never forgotten that ring--indeed, he had carried a rough impression of it upon his cuticle for a week or more, as a gentle reminder of Roderic's ability as a boxer, for it seems that the two rivals had indeed once come to blows in those days of old, though separated quickly by mutual friends. However, such an impression is apt to be lasting--Julio had seen the queer device of that signet ring many times in his dreams, so that its unexpected appearance just now and here was a rude shock. Roderic saw the stare and while at first he could not comprehend its import, when he too cast his eyes upon his hand he remembered. This was worse than he had expected--his identity known to Julio what would prevent the hasty tempered Spaniard, who still owed him a grudge for the blow received long ago, from publicly announcing his name to the soldiers, who would pounce upon him like mad dogs. He had expected at the worst to be treated as a Spaniard--now the bubble had burst. Was it to be flight? Involuntarily he looked around him--the circle had doubled, aye, even trebled, and to break through such a compact mass would require the battering powers of a giant. What then? Must he draw his revolver and simply sell his life as dearly as possible? It may be sweet to die for one's country, but most men much prefer to live, especially when health and wealth and honor are their inheritance by right of birth. Roderic never felt less like giving up the ghost in all his life than he did just then. He had been far down below zero up to the moment when he discovered that it was not Georgia who accompanied Julio, and then of a sudden his spirits took a bound that sent them away above fever heat; life assumed a rosy hue, and happiness came again within his grasp. A man of remarkable resources in emergencies, Roderic felt no dismay paralyze his limbs when he discovered how next to impossible it was that he make his escape through the crowd. There were other methods. He had made it a rule in life never to depend wholly upon one source of income--to avoid the mistake of putting all his eggs in one basket. Julio's scattered wits came back. He even smiled, but there was a devil in that smirk; a gleam in his eyes that told of gloating triumph. He had been easily beaten in the little game of the knife, but there were still trump cards up his sleeve--he laughed loudest who laughed last, and the time had come for him to settle that long standing debt--the scar of that wound had burned like wild fire every time he looked at it, but it would cease to cry out for satisfaction after this August night.