“Oh, you lost your way, did you,” the officer said, becoming somewhat harder in his manner. “Why do you wear that coat and hat? you are not a native here. Why are you disguised?”
“My own clothes were ruined in the forest as you can see,” Hi said. “Some kind people at San Marco, where I came out of the forest, gave me these to make up.”
The other officer moved over to them, to ask what his brother had asked.
“So, a sacred pekin,” he said. They talked in Spanish for a moment, with looks at Hi which were not favourable.
“Zubiga,” the elder officer called, to a couple of orderlies, who jumped forward at the order, “Take this man in charge.” Then turning to Hi, he said, “You will stand aside a little. We will see later.”
“Mayn’t I go on to Anselmo?”
“No: sacred pekin, you mayn’t.”
They left him with the orderlies, while they returned towards the edge of the copse to watch what their scouts were doing. “They are sending out spies,” Hi thought. “I’ve come just too late. Don Manuel is up the hill in Anselmo, and if I’d only been here an hour sooner, I’d have joined him before these devils arrived. Now I’m diddled again.”
After some minutes of suspense, the squadron from Piedras Blancas entered the copse. The officer in charge of it took the salute of the two officers who had stopped Hi; he spoke to them both, went to the edge of the copse, to watch what was being done, talked for a few minutes there, and then came to Hi. He was an elderly man, with a frank, fearless face, and the pug-nosed look of a lightweight boxer.
Like all the officers of the army he spoke English.