As he talked on, all my body began to tremble. The scene was moving indeed, but it was not that which stirred me so deeply, it was the man’s voice and bearing that reminded me—no, it could scarcely be! “Oh! you will not be so cruel,” said the lady, “to leave me, your wife, thus alone and in such sore trouble and danger. Take me with you, Juan, I beseech you!” and she caught him by the arm and clung to him. He shook her from him somewhat roughly, and as he did so his wide hat fell to the ground so that the moonlight shone upon his face. By Heaven! it was he—Juan de Garcia and no other! I could not be mistaken. There was the deeply carved, cruel face, the high forehead with the scar on it, the thin sneering mouth, the peaked beard and curling hair. Chance had given him into my hand, and I would kill him or he should kill me. I took three paces and stood before him, drawing my sword as I came. “What, my dove, have you a bully at hand?” he said stepping back astonished. “Your business, señor? Are you here to champion beauty in distress?” “I am here, Juan de Garcia, to avenge a murdered woman. Do you remember a certain river bank away in England, where you chanced to meet a lady you had known, and to leave her dead? Or if you have forgotten, perhaps at least you will remember this, which I carry that it may kill you,” and I flashed the sword that had been his before his eyes. “Mother of God! It is the English boy who—” and he stopped. “It is Thomas Wingfield who beat and bound you, and who now purposes to finish what he began yonder as he has sworn. Draw, or, Juan de Garcia, I will stab you where you stand.” De Garcia heard this speech, that to-day seems to me to smack of the theatre, though it was spoken in grimmest earnest, and his face grew like the face of a trapped wolf. Yet I saw that he had no mind to fight, not because of cowardice, for to do him justice he was no coward, but because of superstition. He feared to fight with me since, as I learned afterwards, he believed that he would meet his end at my hand, and it was for this reason chiefly that he strove to kill me when first we met. “The duello has its laws, señor,” he said courteously. “It is not usual to fight thus unseconded and in the presence of a woman. If you believe that you have any grievance against me—though I know not of what you rave, or the name by which you call me—I will meet you where and when you will.” And all the while he looked over his shoulder seeking some way of escape. “You will meet me now,” I answered. “Draw or I strike!”