They were alone, this little party of actors, although many 330 an eye peered out timidly at them from behind closed shutters and barred doors around the plaza. Don Jorge and Rosendo came out of the house and stood behind Josè. The captain confronted them, bristling with wrath at the insolence that dared oppose his supreme authority. The heat had already begun to pour down in torrents. The morning air was light, but not a sound traversed it. The principals in this tense drama might have been painted against that vivid tropical background.
Then Harris, moved by his piquant Yankee curiosity, appeared at the door of the parish house, his great eyes protruding and his head craned forth like a monster heron. Morales saw him. “Ha!” he exclaimed. “Perhaps the Americano hides the daughter of Ariza!”
He started for the priest’s door. But ere he reached it Reed suddenly appeared from behind Harris. In his hand he grasped a large American flag. Holding this high above his head, he blocked the entrance.
“Hold! Señor Capitán!” he cried in his perfect Spanish. “We are American citizens, and this house is under the protection of the American Government!”
Morales fell back and stood with mouth agape in astonishment. The audacity of this foreign adventurer fairly robbed him of his breath. He glanced dubiously from him to the priest. Then, to save the situation, he broke into an embarrassed laugh.
“Bien, my good friend,” he finally said, addressing Reed in his courtliest manner, “all respect to your excellent Government. And, if you will accept it, I shall be pleased to secure you a commission in the Colombian army. But, my orders––you understand, do you not? The sun is already high, and I can not lose more time. Therefore, you will kindly stand aside and permit me to search that house.” He motioned to his men and moved forward.
Still holding aloft the flag, Reed drew a long revolver. Harris quickly produced one of equal size and wicked appearance. Morales stopped abruptly and looked at them in hesitation. He knew what he might expect. He had heard much of American bravery. His chief delight when not in the field was the perusal of a battered history of the American Civil War; and his exclamations of admiration for the hardihood of those who participated in it were always loud and frequent. But he, too, had a reputation to sustain. The Americans stood grimly silent before him. Harris’s finger twitched nervously along the trigger, and a smile played over his thin lips. The man was aching for a scrimmage.
Then, his face flaming with shame and chagrin, Morales turned to his escort and commanded them to advance.
Up went the two revolvers. A moment more, and––