Very unhappy, Richard Cary inched himself in beneath the load of wood, flat on his back. The Indian lad, who had a wit of his own, hung over the rear of the cart two bags stuffed with fodder for the mule. These concealed the protruding feet of the melancholy stowaway. It was one way to enter Cartagena, but hurtful to the pride of an adventurer who had waged one hand-to-hand conflict after another in escaping from these same walls. There were precedents among other bold men, however, as far back in history as the wooden horse of Troy.
The springless cart bumped and shook him infernally. He swore at the mule, in muffled accents, and even more earnestly at the crafty Señor Bazán. He could not be blamed for a petulant humor. After an hour or a week or a year, over streets that seemed to be paved with boulders, the load of wood turned into an alley and halted. The muchacho was in no haste to extricate his passenger. First the wood had to be thrown off and the false bottom knocked apart. The lad was unequal to the task of hauling his human cargo out by the legs.
Released, at length, from the ignominious cart, Richard Cary was a prey to renewed qualms. The rear wall of Señor Bazán’s house was darkly uncommunicative. It told nothing whatever. Presently, however, a door opened on a crack. The Indian lad hissed, “Rapido.” The Americano was to remove himself from the alley. He obeyed as rapido as the cramps in his legs permitted. His senses were set on a hair-trigger for whatever emergency might leap at him.
The door opened far enough to admit him. He brushed through, into a shadowy hall, and collided with the shrunken figure of Señor Bazán who yelped dismay and retreated as if afraid of being trodden upon like a bug. The uneasy visitor tottered after him, having a fancy for quarters more spacious than this dim, confined hall. It was like a pursuit during which Señor Bazán scurried into a large room which to Richard Cary’s unaccustomed vision seemed ablaze with lights. He stood and goggled like an owl.
Many shelves of books, a desk littered with papers and more books, heavy furniture of mahogany and stamped leather—this was evidently a library in which the aged uncle of Teresa spent much of his time.
He, too, blinked bewilderment. The ragged scarecrow of a Cary, with the stubbled beard, the blanched color, and the drawn features, was tragically unlike the ruddy young giant in the crisp white uniform with the gold shoulder bars who had towered beside the galleon bell in the moonlit patio. The contrast was deeper than this. Then he had been easy and smiling, the massive embodiment of good-nature. Now his jaw was set, the haggard eyes somberly alert, and his whole demeanor that of a man on guard against an ambuscade. Still absorbed in studying him, Señor Bazán said not a word, but dragged a chair forward and thrust it behind the visitor.
Cary could not have stood on his feet much longer. He dropped into the chair. As a gesture of good-will the old gentleman patted his shoulder and silently vanished to reappear with a tray of cold chicken, salad, bread and cheese, and a bottle of port. Then he cocked his head like a bird and said in English:
“Make yourself easy, my dear young friend. It has been the devil to pay for you since I had the pleasure of meeting you in my house. I have no soldiers hiding behind the curtains, and I have not informed the department of police. There is a hot bath and a soft bed for you, and my poor company to-morrow.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it that I am in safe water,” sighed Richard Cary, his scowl fading. “Comfort like this is worth any trouble that may break later. There was no reason why I should feel sure of a friendly welcome, sir. I am an outlaw, as you know. It was taking a blind chance.”
“ ‘Ver las orejas del lobo!’ ‘To see the ears of the wolf,’ ” gleefully quoted the old gentleman. “So this is the wolf’s den? First I must ask pardon for talking only Spanish when you called with Teresa. It was rude, a shabby trick. There is no better English scholar in Colombia than Ramon Bazán. That girl is so full of mischief that I thought she might lead you on to make fun of her venerable uncle. It would have amused me to listen. Where did I learn my English so well? It means nothing to Teresa—these things happened before she was born; but for several years I was the minister for my country in Washington and later in London. A withered old back-number now, with one foot in the grave, but Ramon Bazán was almost the president of Colombia. A revolution exploded under him. That was many years ago.”