“I am his son,” was the answer.
“Then I am truly delighted to see you, my dear sir,” exclaimed the Don. “My mother is the daughter of an uncle of yours—no; let me see—of a great uncle who settled here some forty years ago or more, after the island became a dependency of England. She will be charmed to welcome you as a cousin. My wife, too, is Irish, and we have some guests also who hail from the old country, so that you will be perfectly at home. You will come up at once, and Lieutenant Rogers will, I hope, accompany you.”
Adair, of course, said all that could be expected; how enchanted he should be to make the acquaintance of his cousin, of whom, till that moment, however, he had never heard, while Jack gladly accepted the invitation offered him. While they were speaking Don Antonio was summoned on a matter of importance.
“I regret that I cannot accompany you at present,” he said, on his return; “I have therefore written to announce your coming, and have ordered horses, with a servant to show you the way. They will be here presently, and in the meantime you must fortify yourselves for the journey with some tiffin.”
He led his visitors to a large airy upper room looking out over the gulf. In the centre was a table spread with all sorts of West-Indian delicacies, and wines and spirits, and bottled beer. A person must go to a hot climate to appreciate the latter liquid properly. Several persons looked in, and took their seats at table as if it was a customary thing. Some apparently were resident planters; others skippers of merchantmen, and there were several foreigners, who spoke only Spanish or French.
One of the last comers was a fine military-looking man, with a handsome countenance, a few grey hairs sprinkling his otherwise dark hair and moustache. Don Antonio introduced him to the two lieutenants as Colonel O’Regan. The naval officers rose and bowed, and the Colonel taking his seat opposite to them at once, as a man of the world, entered into conversation.
“Colonel O’Regan has seen a good deal of service in the Peninsula and elsewhere,” observed Don Antonio to Adair; “knew your uncle, Major Adair, and was with Sir Ralph Abercromby when this island changed masters, I must confess very much to its advantage.”
The colonel heard the last remark. “I was a mere boy at the time, having only just joined my regiment,” he observed, with a smile. “It was not a very hazardous expedition, and had there been any fighting the navy would have borne the brunt of it; but the gallant Spanish Admiral Apodaca, whose memory is not held in the highest repute hereabouts, as soon as he saw the British fleet, having landed his men, set fire to four of his ships, and galloped off, that he might be the first to convey the intelligence to the Governor Chacon, who was preparing to defend the city from the expected assault. He entered at the head of a band of priests, piously counting his rosary. ‘Burnt your ships, admiral!’ exclaimed Chacon, in astonishment. ‘Then I fear all is lost.’ ‘Oh, no, most noble governor, all is not lost, I assure you,’ answered the admiral. ‘I have saved! only think I have saved the image of Santiago de Compostella, the patron of my ships and myself.’”
“Come, come, you are rather hard on the worthy Apodaca—his ships were only half manned, and Admiral Harvey would have captured them all after giving him a sound drubbing,” observed Don Antonio, laughing notwithstanding. “Besides it is a proof that we had pious men among us in those days. Remember that we had not long before been deprived of the holy Inquisition.”
“You did not regret its loss, I presume,” said the colonel. “I saw something of what it must have been in Spain when its dungeons were revealed to view.”