"This," said Colonel Vallier, "precludes yo' from interfering in this othah affair, Professor Scotch."
"Hey? It does! How's that, I'd like to know?"
"I am at your service, professor," bowed the colonel. "You shall make such arrangements as yo' choose. Pistols or swords make no difference to me, for I am a dead shot and an expert swordsman. I trust yo' will excuse us now, gentlemen. We will see yo' later. Good-day."
He locked arms with the young man, and they turned away, with a sweeping salute. The throng parted, and they passed through.
Professor Scotch stood staring after them till Frank tapped him on the shoulder, saying:
"Come, professor, we may as well get out of this."
"Excuse-a me, señors," said a soft, musical voice, and a young man with a Spanish face and pink cheeks was bowing before them. "I t'ink you need-a to be tole 'bout it."
"Told about what?" demanded Frank, who took an instant dislike to this softly smiling fellow with the womanish voice and gentle ways. "What do you mean?"
"Excuse-a me," repeated the stranger, who was gaudily dressed in many colors. "Yo' are strangar-a-rs from de Noath, an' yo' do not know-a de men what you have a de troub' wid. Excuse-a me; I am Manuel Mazaro, an' I know-a dem. De young man is son of de ver' reech Señor Roderick Raymon', dat everybody in New Orle'n know. He is ver' wile—ver' reckless. Ha! He love-a to fight, an' he has been in two duel, dough he is ver' young. But de odare, señors—de man wid de white mustache—ah!"
Manuel Mazaro threw up his hands with an expression that plainly said words failed him.