Chapter Thirty.
At that moment upon the azotea a man was pacing to and fro. He was not a sentinel, though at opposite angles of the building two of these could be seen who carried carbines—their heads and shoulders just appearing above the crenated top of the battlement towers.
The man en promenade was an officer, and the part of the azotea upon which he moved was the roof of the officers’ quarter, separated from the rest by a wall of equal height with the parapet. It was, moreover, a sacred precinct—not to be disturbed by the tread of common troopers on ordinary occasions. It was the “quarterdeck” of the Presidio.
The officer was in full dress, though not on any duty; but a single glance at the style and cut of his uniform would convince any one that he was a “dandy soldier,” and loved to appear at all times in fine feathers. The gold-lace and bright-coloured broad-cloth seemed to affect him as his rich plumage does the peacock. Every now and again he paused in his promenade, glanced down at his lacquered boots, examined the tournure of his limbs, or feasted his eyes upon the jewels that studded his delicate white fingers.
He was no beauty withal nor hero either; but that did not prevent him from indulging in the fancy that he was both—a combination of Mars and Apollo.
He was a colonel in the Spanish army, however, and Comandante of the Presidio—for the promenader in question was Vizcarra himself.
Though satisfied with his own appearance, he was evidently not satisfied about something else. There was a cloud upon his features that not even the contemplation of the lacquered boots or lily-white hands could banish. Some disagreeable thought was pressing upon his mind, causing him at intervals to make fitful starts, and look nervously around him.
“Bah! ’twas but a dream!” he muttered to himself. “Why should I think of it? ’twas only a dream!”
His eyes were bent downward as he gave expression to these abrupt phrases, and as he raised them again chance guided his look in the direction of “La Niña Perdida.” No, it was not chance, for La Niña had figured in his dream, and his eyes were but following his thoughts.