“What is all this mystery? Why do you fear those men?” asks Louise, as they re-enter the house.
“It is not for myself that I tremble,” replies Van Zandt, who is critically examining his pistols.
“Then it is I whom they seek. Your silence answers yes,” says Louise quietly. She is very white, but her voice does not tremble. Like a true heroine she has grown calm in the face of danger.
“By heaven!” Van Zandt bursts forth; “my life stands between you and those Spanish devils, and gladly do I place it there. As for you,” turning to Cyrus Felton, who has risen from the library table and stands near them, “I would not lift a finger to save your worthless existence. For the wrongs which I have suffered, for the misery which you and your son have caused me, I meant to have exacted a bitter reparation, but fate has otherwise decreed. Ah, you know me!”
“Spare me your reproaches,” says the old man, lifting his hand in protest. “I know you. You are Ernest Stanley. What I have dreaded, yet for nearly a year expected, has come at last. My sin has found me out.”
“Ah, that it has. But you are safe from my hands now, and maybe from that of the law before this day is ended. Out of the way, unless you wish your miserable life cut short by a Spanish bullet. Miss Hathaway, I must ask you to step into the library, as our visitors have arrived.” And, throwing open the door, Van Zandt stands upon the threshold, waiting.
Lieutenant Sanchez and his men rein their horses within a dozen paces of the house. The leader dismounts and comes leisurely up the walk, apparently oblivious of the presence of Van Zandt, whose watchful eyes are covering every movement of the scoundrelly band.
“One moment,” commands the American, holding up his hand. But the Spaniard pays not the slightest attention.
“Halt!”
This time Sanchez pauses and strokes his mustachios with exasperating calmness. “I would advise the senor to make no opposition if he values his life,” he says.