"Yes," said I, wondering.
"It was the salute to the general, who is inspecting the forts along the coast."
"I have heard my father speak of General Barejo."
"Well, after dinner last evening the commandant happened to speak of your shipwreck, and the general was greatly interested. 'A boy named Crawford?' said he thoughtfully; 'is he in the fort now?' and on hearing you were, told the commandant he would see you in the morning. This is he crossing the courtyard. He is coming here, I believe."
I had only time to thank Santiago for his kindness when the general entered the room. He was a short, spare man, with closely-cropped gray hair and a grizzled beard. His face was tanned and wrinkled, but he held himself erect as a youth; and his profession was most pronounced.
The young captain saluted, and, at a sign from the general, left the room.
Barejo eyed me critically, and with a grim smile exclaimed, "By St. Philip, there's no need to ask. You're the son of the Englishman Crawford, right enough."
"Who was murdered by Spanish soldiers," said I, for his cool and somewhat contemptuous tone roused me to anger.
He smiled at this outburst, and spread out his hands as if to say, "The boy's crazy;" but when he spoke, it was to ask why I had left Lima.
"Because I had no wish to meet with my father's fate," I answered brusquely; and he laughed again.