Benson stared down upon him, big fists clenched, face purple with furious passion. Thinking he was about to strike, Bull put out his hand. But, turning suddenly, Benson strode out of the room, throwing his defiance back over his shoulder.
“He can’t bluff a British subject that way! He’ll give me his answer himself—and he’ll give it to-day.”
As Bull followed out a hand touched his shoulder. Thinking it was the secretary, he turned—then stood staring at the sentry on guard at the door, who returned a sheepish grin. Though the face seemed familiar, he did not recognize the man for one of the raiders Lee had saved from hanging till he spoke.
“Ah, señor, ’tis fine to see an old face. The señorita, she that saved us from your just anger, she is well? Tell her that fine mercy was defeated by the revueltosos who took us from her servants. Ask if she will in her great kindness have the general set us free that we may return to our wives and babes in Las Bocas.”
In spite of his own stress, Bull could not but grin. “Was the jefe of Las Bocas a better master than Valles?”
“A master is always a master.” The man shrugged. “But one’s pais is one’s pais and the niñas, the flesh of one’s body, blood of his blood, cannot be forgotten. Thou wilt speak to her, señor?”
The tear that trickled down his villainous face earned him a civil answer. Though he knew the futility of it, Bull nodded. “Si, I will speak.”
Below he found Benson shoving like an angry bull through the peon crowd. On its outskirts he turned and shook his fist at the building.
“I’m going back to the consul—to tell him something that he’ll take better alone. Where shall I meet you?”
“Here?”