Then it flashed across me that this could be no other than the illustrious Gen. Toreado, commander-in-chief of the grand army of several hundred barefoot soldiers, a man who had been a soldier of fortune all his life, leader in ten revolutions, and one not to be lightly offended.
It was not my intention at that particular moment to tarry there—I had no reason to desire an interview with the ferocious old fire eater who was wont to go raging up and down like a burning brand, through these wonderful little Central American republics.
My hand was on the parapet of the wall, and I knew I could reach the ladder and hustle down to apparent safety before the general could scramble over the gently sloping room to prevent me.
This I was just in the act of doing, when of a sudden I remembered something.
It was that confounded satchel!
I had, of course, laid it down, the better to place Hildegarde on the ladder.
To abandon it was not to be considered for even an instant.
What would she say to me? It contained perhaps her jewels—yes, and there was that silver picture frame inclosing the photo of my lucky successor. Surely these things were worth risking my life for.
At any rate, I did not take the time to think over the matter—a man is bound to act pretty much on impulse in such a case.
I abandoned all present ideas of retreat, and instead, sounded the charge.