“Mr. Sydney, Mr. John; and my name is Phillips,” he answered, including his companions and himself with a comprehensive wave of the hand.
“Do your comrades speak Spanish?” the officer asked.
“No,” Phil replied, decidedly in haste, fearing Sydney might answer in the affirmative. He felt it best that there should be but one mouthpiece.
After ten minutes of brisk walking, they arrived at a pretty country villa. It was surrounded by trees of all descriptions and throughout the garden flowers of many colors were growing in great profusion, filling the balmy air with delicious perfume. The house itself was built of the adobe so common in Spanish speaking countries; one storied with a central court in which more plants and flowers gave their fragrance.
Another officer met them at the door and escorted them to the courtyard, where a number of tables were laid for a meal. The odor of savory cooking made our friends remember that their last meal had been breakfast.
After a few moments’ wait, an older officer appeared; he was dressed simply in fatigue uniform, but wore a large gold star over his left breast. He shook hands cordially with the visitors.
There had been no introduction, but Phil knew at a glance that this short, thin, wizened Spaniard, was the great General Ruiz, probably the next dictator of Verazala.
“Sit down, gentlemen,” he said in his native language. “We are very fond of the English; they are always welcome, but your brothers, the Americans, are different. They do not like me, so I do not like them.” As he spoke his face showed the vindictiveness of his race.
Phil felt he ought to say something, but it was hard to collect his thoughts. The rôle of impostor was a new one.
“I thank you for myself and friends,” he managed finally to say. “We desire a pass through your lines. We are writers, and wish to send home an account of your coming battle.”