At this instant the clatter of hoof-beats sounds from the road, as a detachment of Spanish caballeria ride up, tether their horses and hurry boisterously into the cafe. The Americans are established on a quiet veranda at the rear of the building, where they may be free from just such interruptions.
“Are you ready to depart?” says Van Zandt to his companions.
“I am anxious to return to Santiago as soon as possible,” declares Mr. Felton.
Van Zandt raps upon the table for the waiter, but no response is made. Host and helpers are busily occupied with their noisy guests.
“Pardon me a moment. I will step within and settle the account,” says Van Zandt, as he rises and enters the cafe.
The drinking-room is crowded with the boisterous soldiery, disporting themselves as if war were an amusement and the curtain nearly down on the farce of revolution.
The presumptive leader of the troopers is a tall, rather handsome young fellow, who sits with his back against the wall and a glass in his hand. There is no one within a dozen or twenty feet of him except one caballero, with a scar across his forehead, who sits by himself at a table.
As Van Zandt enters and closes the door behind him the Spanish captain glances up and their eyes meet.
“Great heavens! Am I dreaming,” mutters Van Zandt. And then he stands with white face and clenched fists, staring at the man before him.
The latter returns the stare. “I trust you will know me again senor,” he remarks, ungraciously, as he sets down his glass and strikes a match to ignite a cigarette.