Calderon whispers to De Lara:
“The English officers!”
Cadwallader says, sotto-voce to Crozier:
“The fellows we’ve heard about—our rivals, Ned, like ourselves, I suppose, going to visit the girls.”
De Lara makes no response to Calderon. Neither does Crozier to Cadwallader. There is not time. They are now close up to the gate, and there is only its breadth between them.
They have arrived there at the same instant of time, and simultaneously make stop. Face to face, silence on both sides, neither word nor salute offered in exchange. But looks are quite as expressive—glances that speak the language of jealous rivalry—of rage with difficulty suppressed.
It is a question of precedence, as to who shall first pass into the entrance. Their hesitation was not from any courtesy, but the reverse. The men on horseback look down on those afoot contemptuously, scornfully. Threateningly, too; as though they had thoughts of riding over, and trampling them under the hoofs of their horses. No doubt they would like to do it, and might make trial, were the young officers unarmed. But they are not. Crozier carries a pistol—Cadwallader his midshipman’s dirk, both weapons conspicuous outside their uniforms.
For a period of several seconds’ duration, the rivals stand vis-à-vis, neither venturing to advance. Around them is a nimbus of angry electricity, that needs but a spark to kindle it into furious flame. A single word will do it. This word spoken, and two of the four may never enter Don Gregorio’s gate—at least not alive.
It is not spoken. The only thing said is by Crozier to Cadwallader—not in a whisper, but aloud, and without regard to what effect it may have on the enemy.
“Come along, Will! We’ve something better to do than stand shilly-shallying here. Heave after me, shipmate!”