y with the intent to assault, as
shown in his eyes.

Suddenly, however, their expression changes at sight of the bared blade.
Again that diabolical dirk! Despite a pull he has just taken from the
flask, his courage fails him; and crestfallen, as a knight compelled to
lower his plume, he too passes Cadwallader, without a word--riding on
after De Lara.

He overtakes the latter in time to be spectator of a scene; in its
commencement somewhat similar to that enacted by himself, but with a
very different termination.

Crozier, whose ear has also caught the sounds from behind, draws bridle,
and looks back. He sees De Lara making towards him; and, at a glance,
divines the intent. It is a _golpe de caballo_, or collision of
horses--a common mode of assault among Spanish Californians.

Instead of turning aside to avoid it, he of Shropshire determines on a
different course. He knows he is upon a strong horse, and feels
confident he can stay there.

With this confidence he faces towards the advancing enemy, and after
taking true bearing, spurs straight at him.

Breast to breast the horses meet, shoulder to shoulder the men. Not a
word between these themselves, both too maddened to speak. Only a cry
from Carmen Montijo, a shriek from Inez Alvarez, heard simultaneously
with the shock.

When it is over, Don Francisco de Lara is seen rolling upon the road--
his horse kicking and sprawling in the dust beside him.

Regaining his feet, the gambler rushes to get hold of a pistol, whose
butt protrudes from his saddle-holster.

He is too late: Cadwallader has come up; and, dropping down out of his
saddle, as if from a ship's shrouds, makes himself master of the weapon.

Disarmed, his glittering attire dust-bedaubed, De Lara stands in the
middle of the road, irresolute, discomfited, conquered. He can do
nothing now, save storm and threaten--interlarding his threats with
curses--"_Carajos_!" spitefully pronounced.

The ladies, at Crozier's request, have ridden on ahead, so that their
ears are not offended.

After listening to the ebullition of his impotent spleen--Cadwallader
all the while loudly laughing--Crozier, in serious tone, says:

"Don Francisco De Lara--for your card tells me that is your name--take a
sailor's advice: go quietly to your quarters; stow yourself out of
sight; and stay there till your temper cools down. We don't want you to
walk. You shall have your horse, though not your shooting-iron. That I