"Pulpete," said the taller, "now that we are going to meet each
other, knife in hand--you here, I there,--_one, two_,--_on your
guard_,--_triz, traz_,--_have that_,--_take this and call it what
you like_--let us first drain a tankard to the music and measure
of some songs."

"Señor Balbeja," replied Pulpete, drawing his face aside and spitting
with the greatest neatness and pulchritude towards his shoe, "I am not
the kind of man either for La Gorja or other similar earthly matters,
or because a steel tongue is sheathed in my body, or my weasand slit,
or for any other such trifle, to be provoked or vexed with such a
friend as Balbeja. Let the wine be brought, and then, we will sing;
and afterwards blood--blood to the hilt."

The order was given, they clinked glasses, and, looking one at the
other, sang a Sevillian song.

This done, they threw off their cloaks with an easy grace, and
unsheathed their knives with which to prick one another, the one
Flemish with a white haft, the other from Guadix, with a guard to the
hilt, both blades dazzling in their brightness, and sharpened and
ground enough for operating upon cataracts, much less ripping up
bellies and bowels. The two had already cleft the air several times
with the said lancets, their cloak wound round their left arm--first
drawing closer, then back, now more boldly and in bounds--when Pulpete
hoisted the flag for parley, and said:

"Balbeja, my friend, I only beg you to do me the favor not to fan my
face with _Juilon_ your knife, since a slash might use it so ill that