“Of what profession is he?” asked the general of Mr Laffan. “Is he a lawyer?”
“No,” I replied; “he is a British naval officer who has resided for some time in this country, but is still under the protection of the English Government, to whom it would be my duty to give information should any harm happen to him.”
“Had he been a lawyer, whether a British subject or not, he should be shot,” answered Murillo. “As it is, I will consider the matter.”
He turned to one of the officers, who handed him a paper.
“Ah! I see he is married to a lady belonging to a rebel family; and he himself was found inciting the peasantry to take up arms. I care not though he is under British protection. He shall die.”
“My countrymen will avenge him,” I answered through Mr Laffan, who assumed an authoritative tone and manner, which I thought would produce some effect. “You know not whether the accusation is true or false.”
Judging that it was best to leave what I had said to produce its effect, I stopped for a minute, and then continued,—“Well, your Excellency, I need not speak further about Señor Ricardo Duffield. I have now to plead for another person, who, although not an Englishman, belongs to all civilised countries in the world, and all will equally stigmatise those who injure him; I allude to the learned Dr Cazalla. I beg that he may be allowed to accompany me to my own country, where he can prosecute his scientific studies without molestation.”
The general’s brow grew darker than ever.
“He is one of the pests of this country. He taught the rebels how to make gunpowder and arms, to be used against their rightful sovereign. He shall die, even although the whole British army, with your Lord Wellesley at their head, were to endeavour to rescue him.”
“That’s an ungrateful remark, your Excellency, considering the service he has rendered Spain,” observed Mr Laffan; “but it’s just what may be expected.”