Roderic drew back his sword, but the old warrior made no appeal for mercy.
A Spaniard may appear cruel according to Anglo-Saxon ways of looking at things, but no race of men has shown more splendid courage in battle or upon the terrible unknown seas of the fifteenth century.
Roderic turning hung his East Indian blade once more upon the wall, doubtless to the sore amazement of the soldier.
It was at this juncture Georgia came hastily into the room bearing an antique lamp which her trembling fingers had succeeded in lighting.
Upon her face was an anxious, almost terrified expression, as though she half expected to find one or both of the men lying there in their blood.
To see them standing there unarmed was a joyous revelation.
As for the old soldier, the truth flashed upon him with a shock, when his eyes beheld a face he long had known.
"Holy Father, is it you Senor Owen? Dolt, idiot that I was not to recognize the familiar swing of your cunning sword arm. I am pleased to meet you again—as, I am furiously angry because all these months you have neglected this sweet flower, and caused her much suffering."
Thus he rambled on, halting between his natural affection for the young American, yet holding back on account of race enmity, since Spanish and American arms now clashed.