“Sit down, sir,” answered General Houston, motioning to an ammunition box. “Summon General Almonte,” he bade, to Colonel Hockley. “I need an interpreter.”
Santa Anna started to seat himself, with an appealing glance around the scowling circle—but instead took an impulsive step aside, and smiled invitingly. Colonel Rusk had just pressed through, with young de Zavala, son of Don Lorenzo de Zavala, the Texas vice-president.
“Ah, amigo mio, amigo mio! [my friend, my friend!]” exclaimed Santa Anna. “The son of my early friend!” And put his arms about young de Zavala’s shoulders.
But that did not work; for young de Zavala released himself, and looked the general in the face without a smile.
“It has been so, señor,” he replied, clearly.
General Santa Anna sat down on the box, as if much disappointed. He held his hands against his sides, and groaned for sympathy. But he did not get much.
“A little late, wasn’t he!” whispered Leo, to Ernest. “After he’d put a price on de Zavala’s head and driven him and his family out of Mexico!”
Colonel Hockley returned with General Almonte. The crowd parted for their passage through. General Almonte saluted, and he and General Santa Anna embraced one another, by the shoulders. The presence of a friend appeared to encourage Santa Anna. He braced up, smiled upon General Houston, and began to talk.
“That man may consider himself born to no common destiny, who has conquered the Napoleon of the West,” he complimented—General Almonte translating into English. “And it now remains for him to be generous to the vanquished.”
“Will you listen to that!” gasped Sion. “‘Napoleon of the West’! Now he asks us to be ‘generous’ to him, because he’s only murdered a few hundred of us!”