“Yes, Tibby, why don’t you?”
Don Tiburcio cocked a puzzled head toward the American. He had not known such softness of voice in Mendez’s former captain of Lancers. But he saw that Driscoll had drawn his pistol, which accorded so grimly with the mildness of his tone that the scout chuckled in delight and admiration.
“You know that I’ll tell–now,” he said reproachfully. “In a word, there’s been no battle at all, curse him, curse both––”
“No battle! Escobedo kept away then?”
“No, not even that. The Imperialists would not fight, and the Empire has lost its last chance. Curse them both, curse––”
“Well, curse away, but who, what?”
“I curse, señores mios,” and the scout’s words grated in 374rage and chagrin, “I curse His Excellency the general-of-division-in-chief of the army of operations, Don Leonardo Marquez. I curse, señores, the Reverend Señor Abbot, Padre Augustin Fischer––”
“Good, that’s finished. Now tell us why there was no battle.”
“I curse His Ex––”
“You have already, but now––”