Don Ignacio looked more troubled than surprised. He knew who was there. But when the words spoken outside reached the ears of Carlos Santander, first, in openly exchanged salutations and then whispers seemingly secret and confidential, he could no longer keep his seat, but springing up, exclaimed-- "_Carrai_! It's that dog of an _Irlandes_!" "Hish!" continued his host. "The Senor Florencio will hear you." "I wish him to hear me. I repeat the expression, and plainly in his own native tongue. I call him a cur of an Irishman." Outside was heard a short, sharp ejaculation, as of a man startled by some sudden surprise. It was followed by an appealing speech, this in the softer accents of a woman. Then the casement was drawn abruptly open, showing two faces outside. One, that of Florence Kearney, set in an angry frown; the other, Luisa Valverde's, pale and appealing. An appeal idle and too late, as she herself saw. The air had become charged with the electricity of deadliest anger, and between the two men a collision was inevitable. Without waiting for a word of invitation, Kearney stepped over the casement sill, and presented himself inside the room. Don Ignacio and the Creole were by this also on their feet; and for a second or so the three formed a strange triangular _tableau_--the Mexican with fear on his face, that of Santander still wearing the expression of insult, as when he had exclaimed, "Cur of an Irishman!" Kearney confronting him with a look of indignant defiance. There was an interval of silence, as that of calm preceding storm. It was broken by the guest latest arrived saying a few words to his host, but in calm, dignified tone; an apology for having unceremoniously entered the room. "No need to apologise," promptly rejoined Don Ignacio. "You are here by my invitation, Senor Don Florencio, and my humble home is honoured by your presence." The Hidalgo blood, pure in Valverde's veins, had boiled up at seeing a man insulted under his roof. "Thanks," said the young Irishman. "And now, sir," he continued, turning to Santander and regarding him with a look of recovered coolness, "having made my apology, I require _yours_." "For what?" asked Santander, counterfeiting ignorance. "For using language that belongs to the _bagnios_ of New Orleans, where, I doubt not, you spend most part of your time." Then, suddenly changing tone and expression of face, he added-- "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--