We went to a fool show among the Galicians, and, I am ashamed to say, played the fool.

There was the deuce of a row, and Mackenzie and I were in a tight box, for a dozen or so of our Galician friends were determined upon blood.

They got some of mine too, for they were using their knives, and, I am bound to say, it looked rather serious.
At this juncture that young beggar, forgetting all my good training in the manly art, and reverting to his Slavic barbaric methods of defence, went in with a hand-spike, yelling, and, I regret to say, cursing, till I thought he had gone drunk or mad.

Drunk, he was not, but mad,--well, he was possessed of some kind of demon none too gentle that night.

I must acknowledge it was a good thing for us, and though I hate to think of the whole ghastly business, it was something fine, though, to see him raging up and down that room, taunting them for cowards, hurling defiance, and, by Jove, looking all the while like some Greek god in cowboy outfit, if your imagination can get that.