He faced the girl meaningly.
"Will you excuse us for a moment's interchange of pleasantries?"
She nodded, and retired to her bedroom with Nita.
"What do you want, you scoundrel? I know that you are an impostor—a make-believe, and worse!"
"Take it easy, Duke. I'm really not too enthusiastic over you. But this Colt revolver is not a make-believe. I am only going to bother your aristocratic memory with this one little idea—that if there is any reporting to the captain or ship's officers, to interfere with my services as Ghost Breaker for the royal house of Aragon, there is going to be a nice band concert in the public square of your native town—and the special number on the programme will be the 'Dead March from Saul,' with pretty black crêpe on the ducal doorknob! Do you catch my meaning?"
"You Yankee pig!"
"I'm not a Yankee—I'm a Johnny Reb, by birth and education. But both Yankees and Rebels acquired a reputation for marksmanship about fifty years ago." The jest died out of his voice. "One whimper from you, damn you, and I'll shoot you as I would a mad dog!"
There was such a savage rasp in that mellow Southern voice that the Duke instinctively dodged backward, as though expecting the first volley.
"We shall see what we shall see!" were his final words. "And if I see you about the cabin of my cousin again,—well, perhaps the officers of this ship may take a hand."
Warren pursed his lips into an ironical grin.