“It is a right fair offer,” the young man said again.

“Rest yourself, senor,” said Rodriguez, “while I take off my shoe,” and he indicated his kerchief which was still on the ground.

The stranger sat down a little wearily, and Rodriguez sitting upon the dust took off his left shoe.  And now he began to think a little wistfully of the face that had shone from that balcony, where all was dark now in black shadow unlit by the moon.  The emptiness of the balcony and its darkness oppressed him; for he could scarcely hope to survive an encounter with that swordsman, whose skill he now recognised as being of a different class from his own, a class of which he knew nothing.  All his own feints and passes were known, while those of his antagonist had been strange and new, and he might well have even others.  The stranger’s giddiness did not alter the situation, for Rodriguez knew that his handicap was fair and even generous.  He believed he was near his grave, and could see no spark of light to banish that dark belief; yet more chances than we can see often guard us on such occasions.  The absence of Serafina saddened him like a sorrowful sunset.

Rodriguez rose and limped with his one shoe off to the stranger, who was sitting upon his kerchief.

“I will bandage my right eye now, senor,” he said.

The young man rose and shook the dust from the kerchief and gave it to Rodriguez with a renewed expression of his gratitude at the fairness of the strange handicap.  When Rodriguez had bandaged his eye the stranger returned his sword to him, which he had held in his hand since his effort to beat Morano, and drawing his own stepped back a few paces from him.  Rodriguez took one hopeless look at the balcony, saw it as empty and as black as ever, then he faced his antagonist, waiting.

“Bandage one eye, indeed!” muttered Morano as he stepped up behind the stranger and knocked him down for the third time with a blow over the head from his frying-pan.

The young hidalgo dropped silently.

Rodriguez uttered one scream of anger and rushed at Morano with his sword.  Morano had already started to run; and, knowing well that he was running for his life, he kept for awhile the start that he had of the rapier.  Rodriguez knew that no plump man of over forty could last against his lithe speed long.  He saw Morano clearly before him, then lost sight of him for a moment and ran confidently on pursuing.  He ran on and on.  And at last he recognised that Morano had slipped into the darkness, which lies always so near to the moonlight, and was not in front of him at all.  So he returned to his fallen antagonist and found him breathing heavily where he fell, scarcely conscious.  The third stroke of the frying-pan had done its work surely.  Rodriguez’ fury died down, only because it is difficult to feel two emotions at once:  it died down as pity took its place, though every now and then it would suddenly flare and fall again.  He returned his sword and lifted the young hidalgo and carried him to the door of the house under which they had fought.