He saw eyes as dark as his own, a pale face scarce younger. And his short upper lip, under its wiry moustache, lifted a little, in what was meant to be a smile.
“At your order, señorita,” he replied.
And now he saw the girl’s eyes widen and flash, saw the red of anger run into lip and cheek.
“Señor general,” she continued huskily, “there is a man—one Ricardo Villegas—who last night left the hacienda San Jacinto to come to Tacarigua and join La Revolución. Leaving, he took with him our cubierta, a new machete, and—a woman.”
The general laughed.
“That man of yours was equipped for fighting,” he said.
She was clasping and unclasping her hands with nervous intensity.
“He had best be so,” she answered, “when next he meets me.”
“You will not meet him here.”
“No? no?”—quickly. Suspicion darkened her face. She drew back. The general was lying, doubtless, to save a much-needed soldier from his deserts.