One glance she shot toward Julio, who just at the moment seemed deeply engrossed with the antics of the men who were running over the roofs like a lot of monkeys.
Roderic pressed even closer, eager to hear what she might say, since it concerned his future state as connected with Georgia.
"At Senor Pedro Sanchez the tobacconist, on the Grand Plaza—at eight o'clock—to-morrow—Madre de Dios protect you, senor! Do not longer delay!"
It was enough.
He knew he could find the place and keep the appointment. Her warning was well timed too, for just as he turned away Julio came to her side.
It was a rare piece of good fortune that had kept him away thus long.
Julio seemed uneasy and suspicious—he even glanced sharply at every one near by as though some inward monitor warned him he was being outgeneraled.
The bystanders were to all appearances quite innocent of wrong intentions, and he could not run after the man who walked away so composedly, demanding that he then and there give an account of himself—those in whose veins bounds the hot blood of Spain stand no such peremptory challenges as that, and the answer just as likely as not would be the drawn arm, the glint of polished steel, the thud of a cuchillo striking home—ugh! he wanted not of that sort.
Oh! yes, Julio knew all about this, for his education while neglected in some other particulars was quite up to date when it came to the stir and danger of war—he had been through many a little engagement himself during his checkered career, and knew just what he would do under similar conditions.
Wherefore his exceeding caution.