“Hush! I thought I heard something move behind us.”’
“Well, upon my soul, I fancied, myself, that I heard a rustle in the bushes,” returned the fosterer—“If old surly is on the ramble, and drop upon us unawares, what a pretty figure we should cut!”
“Come, Mark, let us return to our old quarters; we risk the unpleasant consequences attendant on discovery, without any object to be found—”
“See—the sailor rises!—and the sooner we’re off the better. May God bless that pretty face of her’s—if I could not stop here all night to look at it; but, come along.”
We retired as quietly as we had advanced—the fosterer leading the retreat. No sound occasioned alarm—no ghost of Patagonian proportions crossed our path. We reached the lattice through which we had invaded Don Francisco’s garden. Mark Antony pepped his head and shoulders through the aperture; but never did a man withdraw both more rapidly. A dark-visaged Spaniard pointed a pistol from within, while, without, a person immediately at our elbow, in a low, but peremptory voice, ordered us “to stand.” The tones were perfectly familiar; indeed, there was no doubt touching the identity of the speaker, for Senhor La Pablos stepped from behind one of the thick shrubs.
[Original]
“So, gentlemen,” he commenced, while every word came hissing ironically from between his teeth—“Methought it was only Englishmen who were forced upon my unwilling hospitality. I was mistaken, it would seem, and appearances favoured the deception. I believed my house; was occupied by men of honour; but I have harboured French spies, it would appear.”
“Oh—stop—Mister Pablos, if you plase,” exclaimed the fosterer, “divil a bigger mistake ye ever made in yer life. Arrah—what puts that into yer head?”