"The street of St. Angelo," answered our hero under his breath, as if he were imparting a secret. "To one Francisco, with news, you understand?"
Apparently the man had learned some Spanish since the invasion of the Peninsula, and contrived to understand the words.
"Then enter," he cried. "Enter."
Down came the butt of his weapon with a clatter on the stones, while Tom passed on meekly. Indeed he was anxious to give the impression of one with little courage, merely a tale bearer. Also, he was in a hurry to get away from the Frenchman. For always he was dogged with the fear that he might by some evil chance come face to face with one of the troopers with whom he had fought the Portuguese peasants. However, the grenadier was not one of them. Tom left him standing at ease, and at once clambered up the steep way leading to the town. As for the grenadier, he watched the retreating figure of the stranger reflectively.
"A Spaniard? No," he told himself. "A Portuguese? Parbleu! Impossible! He has not the colouring. Then what? A mixture? No. Then—English!"
The very suspicion set him marching to and fro with energy. His musket flew to his shoulder, and then came down again with a bump. The grenadier was consumed with doubt for some few moments, and then with suspicion that soon became certainty. He called loudly for the serjeant of the guard, made his report, and was promptly relieved. A few minutes later he was hurrying in the direction Tom had taken, with three of his grenadier comrades to assist him.
"A fairly tall, broad-shouldered ragamuffin," he explained. "One with the appearance and manner of a coward at first sight, and with the frame and body of an athlete, and the eyes of one who has courage in abundance. Seek for him; if he fails to surrender on demand, shoot!"
It was a very pleasant prospect for Tom, and no doubt, had he known what was happening, he would have hastened his footsteps, and would have promptly taken measures to ensure his escape. But Tom had important work to do, work which required time and patience. First, there was the envelope to deliver, with the fictitious plans he had drawn, and the wording that told not of Wellington's anticipated attempt of Ciudad Rodrigo, but of his retirement towards Lisbon. In fact, Tom had fabricated a yarn which, if the governor of this fortress believed it, would throw dust in his eyes and aid Wellington's plans enormously. Then there was a tour to be made of the defences, the guns to be located and counted, and any special works recorded on the plan he must draw. Our hero was, indeed, engaged on recognizance work of the utmost importance, work hardly likely to be facilitated by the three grenadiers who were making so hurriedly after him.
"The street of St. Angelo," he repeated to himself; "one Francisco."