“Ah, you know to whom I refer.  Yes, she married Manton, but I don’t know about his liberality; I’m not sure but he cut her throat because he discovered that she lacked that excellent thing in woman, the middle toe of the right foot.”

“Look at that chap!” said Rosser in a low voice, his eyes fixed upon the stranger.

That chap was obviously listening intently to the conversation.

“Damn his impudence!” muttered King—­“what ought we to do?”

“That’s an easy one,” Rosser replied, rising.  “Sir,” he continued, addressing the stranger, “I think it would be better if you would remove your chair to the other end of the veranda.  The presence of gentlemen is evidently an unfamiliar situation to you.”

The man sprang to his feet and strode forward with clenched hands, his face white with rage.  All were now standing.  Sancher stepped between the belligerents.

“You are hasty and unjust,” he said to Rosser; “this gentleman has done nothing to deserve such language.”

But Rosser would not withdraw a word.  By the custom of the country and the time there could be but one outcome to the quarrel.

“I demand the satisfaction due to a gentleman,” said the stranger, who had become more calm.  “I have not an acquaintance in this region.  Perhaps you, sir,” bowing to Sancher, “will be kind enough to represent me in this matter.”

Sancher accepted the trust—­somewhat reluctantly it must be confessed, for the man’s appearance and manner were not at all to his liking.  King, who during the colloquy had hardly removed his eyes from the stranger’s face and had not spoken a word, consented with a nod to act for Rosser, and the upshot of it was that, the principals having retired, a meeting was arranged for the next evening.  The nature of the arrangements has been already disclosed.  The duel with knives in a dark room was once a commoner feature of Southwestern life than it is likely to be again.  How thin a veneering of “chivalry” covered the essential brutality of the code under which such encounters were possible we shall see.

III

In the blaze of a midsummer noonday the old Manton house was hardly true to its traditions.  It was of the earth, earthy.  The sunshine caressed it warmly and affectionately, with evident disregard of its bad reputation.  The grass greening all the expanse in its front seemed to grow, not rankly, but with a natural and joyous exuberance, and the weeds blossomed quite like plants.  Full of charming lights and shadows and populous with pleasant-voiced birds, the neglected shade trees no longer struggled to run away, but bent reverently beneath their burdens of sun and song.  Even in the glassless upper windows was an expression of peace and contentment, due to the light within.  Over the stony fields the visible heat danced with a lively tremor incompatible with the gravity which is an attribute of the supernatural.