"Now, you yellow-liver, you show the white feather!" shouted Pastiri.
"You're flitting about like a grasshopper. Off with you, my boy!
You're in for it! If you don't get out right away you'll be feeling a
palm's length of steel in your ribs!"
One of Leandro's thrusts ripped the bully's jacket.
The thug, now possessed of the wildest panic, dashed behind the
counter; his popping eyes reflected mad terror.
Leandro, insolently scornful, stood rigidly in the middle of the
tavern; pulling the springs of his knife, he closed it. A murmur of
admiration arose from the spectators.
Valencia uttered a cry of pain, as if he had been wounded; his honour,
his repute as a bold man, had suffered a downfall. Desperately he made
his way to the door of the back room, and looked at the panting
proprietress. She must have understood him, for she passed him a key
and Valencia sneaked out. But soon the door of the back room opened
and the bully stood there anew; brandishing his long knife by the
point he threw it furiously at Leandro's face. The weapon whizzed
through the air like a terrible arrow and pierced the wall, where it
stuck, quivering.
At once Leandro sprang up, but Valencia had disappeared. Then, having
recovered from the surprise, the youth calmly dislodged the knife,
closed it and handed it to the tavern-keeper.
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