“It will take at least two minutes,” he replied, “ere the Padre can fire again. Monsieur,” he continued, with earnestness and emotion, “I have yet a request. Having resolved to assume my present attitude of defensive hostilities, not so much for my own sake, as to save my captive countrymen, to whom even your influence might not always prove an adequate protection in this execrable village, I think you can guess the parties who are now the chief objects of my solicitude. On the whole, I judged it their safest course that they should continue in the hospital rather than join me here. As Spaniards, should they find their present position untenable, they can at any rate escape. But, as you know my secret, may I still depend on your good offices? May I venture to hope that, in any case of exigency, you will render all the assistance in your power to one whose life I prize, as much as—as much as I disregard my own?” There spoke the Gascon.
“Depend upon me,” I replied. “Now withdraw from the window without further parley.”
He backed into the house with another bow, and reclosed the shutter. As he disappeared he smiled; nor could I altogether preserve my gravity.
Certainly the Padre’s ideas touching the laws of war were a little primitive. In fact, his firing while the conference was in progress, looked almost like violating a flag of truce.
“Well, Señor Padre,” said I, on entering the cottage whence the shot had proceeded, “how do you intend to regain possession of your house?”
The Padre looked dumfounded. “I rather depended on your experience,” he replied. “Were I in the house, I would undertake to hold it against fifty Frenchmen. But, as we must now be the assailants, and as that is a line of warfare less in my way, I look chiefly to your own more extensive acquaintance with sap, mining, intrenchments, and approaches.”
“No, no,” I answered. “You have thought fit to commence operations, so you must go through with them.”
“Señor Capitan,” said the Padre, “I am already sufficiently punished by having missed that shot. Do not aggravate my penalty by——.” Enter a messenger in haste.
It was Francisco, not only in haste, but in a high state of exasperation. His look I will not attempt to delineate. The face of a well-conducted, taciturn, sober-minded Spaniard, when distorted by passion, must be seen, not described; and, if seen, will not soon be forgotten.
“The enemy,” he cried, “defies us! He has hoisted his standard!”