Don Ramon was silent for a few moments, before repeating the captain’s last words slowly. Then, after a pause—
“It may be different,” he said, “but if matters are as bad as that, it will be because I have fired my last shot, and Villarayo has found that another lover of his country is in his way no more. No, Captain Reed, I shall not have to put your hospitality to the test. I could not escape, and leave those who have been fighting for me to the death. There,” he added quickly, completely changing his tone, “I do not mean to die; I mean to win. Forgive me once again. You will after your fashion shake hands?”
“With all my heart,” cried the skipper, stretching out both his, which were eagerly caught and raised quickly to the Spaniard’s lips.
“Thank you,” he cried, “I am a man once more. Just now I talked like a disappointed woman who could not have her way.—What does that mean?” he said sharply as there was a shout from the distance.
“People coming down the pass,” cried Fitz excitedly, and there was the report of a rifle which ran reverberating with many echoes along the rocks.
Before the sounds had ceased Don Ramon had sprung upon his mule, to turn smiling with a comprehensive wave of his hand to the trio, and then cantered off amongst the rugged stones, while they watched him till he reached the battery of field-pieces and sprang off to throw the rein to one of his men.
“That shot was the opening of the ball,” said the skipper. “Now, my lads, back aboard the schooner, to make our arrangements, Poole, for keeping my word with the Don if he and his people have to run.”
“No!” burst out both the boys in a breath.
“No?” cried the skipper good-humouredly. “What do you mean? This isn’t going to be a show. You don’t want to stop and see the fight?”
“Not want to stop and see it?” cried Fitz excitedly.