Blanco looked slowly from one to the other. Suddenly he threw back both shoulders and his eyes grew bright in full comprehension of the situation he had discovered.
"Señor!" he whispered.
"Yes?" echoed the American in a dull voice.
"Señor—suppose—suppose I have confused the signals?" The tone was insinuating.
Benton's mind flashed back to a Sunday School class of his childhood and his infantile horror for the tale of a tempter on a high mountain offering the possession of all the world if only—if only—
He took a step forward. Speech seemed to choke him.
"In God's name!" he cried, "you have not forgotten?"
The Spaniard slowly shook his head and smiled. The expression gave to his face a touch of the sinister. "No—but it is yet possible to forget, Señor. I serve no King, I serve you. Sometimes a mistake is the truest accuracy. Quien sabe?"
The Andalusian looked at the girl who stood puzzled and waiting. "Sometimes in the Plaza de Toros, Señor," he went on, speaking rapidly and tensely, "the throngs cry, 'Bravo, matador!' and toss coins into the ring. Yet in a moment the same throngs may shout until their throats are hoarse: 'Bravo, toro!' A King is like a bull in the ring, Señor—he has a fickle fate. To me he is nothing—if it pleases them—it is their King—let them do as they wish." He shrugged his shoulders.
Benton straightened. "Manuel," he said with a strained tone, "the flag comes down."