Passing through the wicket into the street, which was lit up by the red glare of a resin torch, we found ourselves face to face with Father Rocus and Lieutenant Don Jesus Maria de Gonzales y Medina. The aide-de-camp bowed stiffly and stared from Walker to myself with a glance of fiery jealousy. I gave him a curt nod, and hastened to grasp the proffered hand of the beaming padre.
"God be with you, my son!" he exclaimed.
"My thanks for the kind wish, padre!" I replied "I see you are coming to call upon my friend Señor Vallois."
"Your friend!" muttered Medina, for I had spoken in French.
"My friend," I repeated. "I had the pleasure of meeting Don Pedro in my own country. But now, señor, with regard to our misunderstanding this morning, I wish to express my regrets and to explain that the error was committed through inadvertence."
"Ah—if you apologize," he said, with a complacent half-sneer.
"You mistake me, señor. I do not apologize. I merely explain."
He turned, without answering, and swaggered in through the archway.
"You Americanos!" protested Father Rocus, reaching up to lay a hand upon my shoulder. "Can you never be prudent? Medina is a swordsman. Your friend here will tell you that out of five duels, the aide has to his credit three deaths on the black record of Satanas."
"If he is a swordsman, I am a pistol shot," I rejoined.