CHAPTER VII.

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.