“Un Yankee! Un Yankee!” they retorted. “A Yankee thief come for our gold!”
“There is truth in that,” he laughed sardonically. “I want gold that you are too lazy to get for yourselves—just as you were too lazy to keep Panama.”
“Un loco! He is insane!” cried Pedro in disgust. “Let us go!”
“No! No!” yelled the angry mob. And amid cries of “Loco! Demonio! Yankee! Puerco!” those in the front ranks made a lunge at the man whose exasperating coolness had kept them at bay, while a shower of missiles came from the peons who hovered in the rear.
But the attack was skilfully met. Tripping up his first two assailants and warding off the blows of a third, the Yankee, smiling derisively, stealthily passed his left hand along the ponderous door against which he was leaning. This street door, as is usual in Colombian houses, had a small “postigo,” or wicket, large enough to admit one person at a time, and opening much more readily than the unwieldy mass of timber of which it formed an insignificant part. Having found the latch of this wicket, the Yankee gave it a quick backward thrust, stepped lightly over the threshold and closed and barricaded this scarcely revealed entrance behind him.
A storm of oaths followed his escape. Then, not content with this vent to their anger, the peons, using such stones and weapons as came to hand, rushed upon the wooden barricade standing between them and their prey, at the same time calling upon the inhabitants of the house to let them in. These Colombian doors, however, are built to withstand a stout siege, and the din might have been indefinitely prolonged had it not come to an abrupt and unexpected conclusion.
Three sharp blows upon the door were given from within. Then a clear feminine voice was heard above the uproar.
“Stand back, Senores! I will open.”
There was a dead silence. This time it was the great door itself that swung slowly open. There was no sign of the escaped Yankee in the wide corridor beyond. In his stead there stood, unattended, unprotected, a woman.