He was evidently astonished at his audacity, but went on eating composedly.
Salve felt that he must not be beaten.
"Life for life, Irishman," he cried, springing to his feet, and as the other also rose, giving him a blow in the face that sent him backwards on the bench against the wall.
A fierce conflict now ensued.

The Irishman got up like a bleeding ox, and catching up a marline-spike that was hanging from the beam, gave Salve a deep wound in the cheek, the scar of which he carried his whole life through.

They drew their knives then; and Salve's coolness and activity soon gave him the superiority over his furious and unwieldy opponent.

His movements were like those of a steel spring; and pale and smiling, he delivered every blow with such well-calculated effect, that the affair ended with the Irishman, bleeding profusely and half-unconscious, tumbling out of the narrow doorway to save himself.
There were not a few who were glad enough that the dreaded Irishman should have been worsted, and it was to this feeling Salve was indebted for being allowed to fight it out alone with him.

He stuck his knife now into the table by the side of his dish, and, looking round him, asked, "Is there any one else now who would like to keep me out of my meat ?" There was no answer.
"While I am about it," he continued, without noticing the blood that was running down his face and over his hands, "I'll settle this matter once for all.