No one answers the knock; and it is repeated. Louder, and still louder.
The sexagenarian janitor sleeps soundly to-night, thinks De Lara, deeming it strange.
Another “rat-at-tat” with the pistol-butt, followed by the usual formulary:
“Ambre la puerta!”
At length comes a response from within; but not the customary “Quen es?” nor anything in Spanish. On the contrary, the speech which salutes the ears of those seeking admission is in a different tongue, and tone altogether unlike that of a native Californian.
“Who the old scratch are ye?” asks a voice from inside, while a heavy footstep is heard coming along the saguan. Before the startled burglars can shape a reply, the voice continues:
“Damn ye! What d’ye want anyhow—wakin’ a fellur out o’ his sleep at this time o’ the night? ’Twould sarve ye right if I sent a bullet through the door at ye. Take care what you’re about. I’ve got my shootin’-iron handy; a Colt’s revolver—biggest size at thet.”
“Por Dios! what does this mean?” mutters De Lara.
“Tell him, Diaz,” he adds, in sotto-voce to the cockfighter—“tell him we’re from the British man-o’-war with—Carrai! I forgot, you don’t speak English. I must do it myself. He won’t know who it is.” Then raising his voice: “We want to see Don Gregorio Montijo. We bring a message from the British man-o’-war—from the two officers.”
“Consarn the British man-o’-war!” interrupts the surly speaker inside; “an’ yur message, an’ yur two officers, I know nothin’ ’bout them. As for Don Gregorio, if ye want to get sight on him, ye’re a preeshus way wide o’ the mark. He ain’t here any more. He’s gin up the house, an’ tuk everything o’ hisn out o’t this mornin’. I’m only hyar in charge o’ the place. Guess you’ll find both the Don an’ his darters at the Parker—the most likeliest place to tree thet lot.”