Would she consider that I had undertaken any risk in the endeavor to serve a woman in trouble?—would she dream that had I known the identity of the one who sent out that appeal, memories of the past might have spurred me on to prove that her one-time estimate of my nature was false?
What a fool I was to bother myself whether she cared or not.
It was too late—much too late to matter now.
Then came a sudden hitch—things did not continue to move along as smoothly.
Some one came upon us—I heard a voice questioning little Carmencita, and then roundly abusing her, though much that was said was Greek to my ears, I being but an indifferent Spanish scholar.
Then Robbins took a hand in the matter, fearing that the child would be struck, such was the anger in which the man addressed her.
I saw her try to hold the mate back, as she uttered a terrified little cry, but the big fellow’s indignation was too keen, and with Carmencita clinging to his coat he rushed at the bully.
The passage was but meagerly lighted, but I could see him let fly with all the vigor of his indignant soul.
You have probably many a time watched a noble ten-pin, the last of the half score, go floundering into the ditch under the assault of a well delivered ball—so this fellow of generous proportions was bowled over when Robbins struck home.
I would that it had been my arm that sent him sprawling, for Hildegarde gave Robbins such a look of undisguised admiration as to arouse my deepest envy.