"Possibly at seven," with an arch glance in the direction of a little ormolu clock upon the mantel, that was merrily ticking away the minutes.
Roderic laughed in some confusion.
"Pray, do not imagine I forgot the lapse of time, since it is now after eleven. Truth to tell I have been a prisoner all this time—not a captive held by Love's silken strands as you suspect."
"A prisoner—oh! Roderic, then that reconciliation was not the end?" she exclaimed, remembering that his appearance was hardly that of a gentleman who exhibited as a usual thing some fastidiousness in his dress.
"Rather it was but the beginning, for at that very moment the gruff old general, her uncle, rushed like a whirlwind into the house, bellowing for a chance to annihilate the Yankee spy whom one of his bold colleagues had seen enter."
"That was exciting enough—I am quite anxious to see that odd old soldier of whom you have spoken so much. But go on—he recognized you?"
"Not at all—the dim light and his passion blinded eyes prevented that. At once he demanded that I take my choice of the various swords on the wall and give him an opportunity to wipe out the insult my presence put upon his dwelling."
"What a ferocious old firebrand he must be. And did she not explain—you said she had usually such power over this uncle?"
"He would not let her say anything, but, wild with anger brushed Georgia aside and swore as only a furious Spaniard could, that unless I at once accepted his benevolent offer of a fair chance to defend myself, he would lay the flat of his sword on me, and use his boot in ejecting me from the premises."
"The old brute—and of course after that, Cousin Roderic, you had to fight?"