"So this is the ending of the grand Mier Expedition, with the further
invasion of Mexico! Well, you've found your way to its capital, anyhow,
if you haven't fought it. And now you're here, what do you expect,
pray?"
"Not much o' good from sich a scoundrel as you," responded Rock, in a
tone of reckless defiance.
"What! No good from me! An old acquaintance--friend, I ought rather to
call myself, after the little scene that passed between us on the shores
of Pontchartrain. Come, gentlemen! Being here among strangers you
should think yourselves fortunate in finding an old comrade of the
filibustering band; one owing you so many obligations. Ah! well; having
the opportunity now, I shall try my best to wipe out the indebtedness."
"You kin do your darndest," rejoined Rock in the same sullen tone. "We
don't look for marcy at your hands nosomever. It ain't in ye; an if 't
war, Cris Rock 'ud scorn to claim it. So ye may do yur crowing on a
dunghill, whar there be cocks like to be scared at it. Thar ain't neery
one o' that sort hyar."
Santander was taken aback by this unlooked-for rebuff. He had come to
the Acordada to indulge in the luxury of a little vapouring over his
fallen foes, whom he knew to be there, having been informed of all that
had befallen them from Mier up to Mexico. He expected to find them
cowed, and eager to crave life from him; which he would no more have
granted than to a brace of dogs that had bitten him. But so far from
showing any fear, both prisoners looked a little defiant; the Texan with
the air of a caged wolf seeming ready to tear him if he showed but a
step over the threshold of the cell.
"Oh! very well," he returned, making light of what Rock had said. "If
you won't accept favours from an old, and, as you know, tried friend, I
must leave you so without them. But," he added, addressing himself more
directly to Kearney:
"You, Senor Irlandes--surely you won't be so unreasonable?"
"Carlos Santander," said the young Irishman, looking his _ci-devant_
adversary full in the face, "as I proved you not worth thrusting with my
sword, I now pronounce you not worth words--even to call you coward,--
though that you are from the crown of your head to the soles of your
feet. Not even brave when your body is encased in armour. Dastard! I
defy you."
Though manifestly stung by the reminder, Santander preserved his
coolness. He had this, if not courage--at least a knack of feigning it.
But again foiled in the attempt to humble the enemy, and, moreover,
dreading exposure in the eyes of the gaol-governor--an old _militario_--
should the story of the _steel shirt_ come out in the conversation, he
desisted questioning the _Tejanos_. Luckily for him none of the others
there understood English--the language he and the Texans had used in
their brief, but sharp exchange of words. Now addressing himself to the
governor, he said--
"As you perceive, Senor Don Pedro, these two gentlemen are old
acquaintances of mine, whose present unfortunate position I regret, and
would gladly relieve. Alas! I fear the law will take its course."
At which commiserating remark Don Pedro smiled grimly; well aware of the
sort of interest Colonel Santander took in the pair of prisoners
committed to his care. For the order so to dispose of them he knew to
have come from Santander himself! It was not his place, nor was he the
kind of man to inquire into motives; especially when these concerned his
superiors. Santander was an officer on the staff of the Dictator,
besides being a favourite at Court. The gaol-governor knew it, and was
subservient. Had he been commanded to secretly strangle the two men
thus specially placed in his charge, or administer poison to them, he
would have done it without pity or protest. The cruel tyrant who had
made him governor of the Acordada knew his man, and had already, as
rumour said, with history to confirm it, more than once availed himself
of this means to get rid of enemies, personal or political.
During all this interlude the robber had maintained his position and
silence, his face turned to the blank wall of the cloister, his back
upon all the others. What his motive for this was neither of the Texans
could tell; and in all likelihood Santander knew not himself any more
who the man was. But his behaviour, from its very strangeness, courted
inquiry; and seemingly struck with it, the staff-colonel, addressing
himself to the gaol-governor, said--
"By the way, Don Pedro, who is your prisoner, who makes the fourth in
this curious quartette? He seems shy about showing his face, which
would argue it an ugly one like my own."
A bit of badinage in which Carlos Santander oft indulged. He knew that
he was anything but ill-favoured as far as face went.
"Only a gentleman of the road--_un salteador_" responded the governor.
"An interesting sort of individual then," said Santander. "Let me scan
his countenance, and see whether it be of the true brigand type--a
Mazaroni or Diavolo."
So saying, he stepped inside the cell, and passed on till he could see
over the robber's shoulder, who now slightly turning his head, faced
towards him. Not a word was exchanged between the two, but from the
looks it was clear they were old acquaintances, Santander starting as he
recognised the other; while his glance betrayed a hostility strong and
fierce as that felt for either Florence Kearney or the Texan. A slight
exclamation, involuntary, but telling of anger, was all that passed his
lips as his eyes met a pair of other eyes which seemed to pierce his
very heart.
He stayed not for more; but turning upon his heel, made direct for the
door. Not to reach it, however, without interruption. In his hurry to
be gone, he stumbled over the legs of the Texan, that stretched across
the cell, nearly from side to side. Angered by the obstruction, he gave
them a spiteful kick, then passed on outward. By good fortune fast and
far out of reach, otherwise Cris Rock, who sprang to his feet, and on
for the entrance, jerking the dwarf after, would in all probability
there and then have taken his life.
As it was, the gaol-governor, seeing the danger, suddenly shut the
cloister door, so saving it.
"Jest as I've been tellin' ye all along, Cap," coolly remarked Rock, as
the slammed door ceased to make resonance; "we shed ha' hanged the
skunk, or shot him thar an' then on the Shell Road. 'Twar a foolish
thing lettin' him out o' that ditch when I had him in it. Darn the luck
o' my not drownin' him outright! We're like to sup sorrow for it now."