His one thought of course, was the girl—had she flitted from the spot because the clamor had alarmed her soul?
Perhaps she was not so unfamiliar with scenes of confusion, since her father had been the governor of famous old Morro Castle, under the walls of which many a remarkable event has occurred since the days of the Virginius affair, when American filibusters were shot down by order of the Spanish authorities.
At any rate she was still there, watching the house where so much clamor arose, twisting and untwisting her little hands in nervous anxiety.
Thanks to Roderic's vandal hand her pretty face was no longer screened by a veil, and more than one rough soldier drank in the outlines of her charming features with avidity.
She was evidently deeply concerned in the outcome of the search.
Roderic should feel flattered at this evidence of approval from so sincere a source.
It was no time, however, to indulge in any foolish speculations, or allow his masculine vanity a chance to arise.
Julio was still on deck, and since his eyesight was apparently as sound as ever, despite his rough treatment at the hands of the Yankee, it would be a wretched mistake to again come under his withering observation, for on this occasion no friendly balcony might offer him an asylum from the outstretched hands of the bolero dancer's excited allies.
So Roderic approached the spot where stood the girl—he must exchange words with her, no matter what the risk or the consequences—at least it was necessary that some rendezvous be appointed where he could engage her more fully in conversation.
With this set object in view he drew near, and watching his opportunity whispered: