He remembered why he had rushed to his bungalow quarters with such hot speed.
"The spy, yes, the Yankee spy. Por Dios! I had almost forgotten him. He entered here—Roblado swore it on his honor. I have never as yet seen the rascal and I jumped to the conclusion that you were he. Was it all a mistake, Senor Owen—will you tell me you are not the party Roblado saw—the party he has sworn to tear limb from limb? I await your answer, senor, and give you my word of honor I shall believe what you say," he said, anxiously, eagerly.
Roderic smiled.
It was not because he lacked in respect for the doughty general, who had backed up his hot words with his sword as a brave man should.
The reference to Roblado amused Owen.
He pictured that fire-eater who was yearning to spill his blood, waiting outside the door of the house, where the click of the swords came as sweet music to his ear, waiting until these sounds were heard no longer, when in a mixture of hope and fear he called out:
"Senor de Brabant, have you slain the pig of a Yankee spy—is it safe to enter?"
Of a truth Roblado's heart was as stout as that of the timid lamb gamboling on the green, and when he roared it was as fiercely as a sucking dove.
Roderic was ever frank—it is a policy that pays best in the end.
"I do not claim the name of a spy, senor, but it would be foolish of me to deny that I am in the secret diplomatic service of my country—that my presence here has been to discover why Spanish agents congregate in Dublin. As to why I am under your roof, it is a purely personal matter that drew me. I chanced to be passing and saw your niece at the window. Resolved to make my peace with her I boldly demanded admittance, and she has been angel enough to forgive. Senor, that is all—you believe me?"