"It is very good of your Excellency to take such interest in me, and I'm
grateful. But I protest--"
"Come, come! _amigo mio_! No protestations. 'Twould only be adding
perjury to profligacy. Ha, ha, ha!"
And the grand dignitary leaned back in his chair, laughing. For it was
but badinage, and he in no way intended lecturing the staff-colonel on
his morality, nor rebuking him for any backslidings. Instead, what came
after could but encourage him in such wise, his chief continuing--
"Yes, Senor Don Carlos, I'm aware of your _amourettes_, for which I'm
not the man to be hard upon you. In that regard, I myself get the
credit--so rumour says--of living in a glass house, so I cannot safely
throw stones. Ha, ha!"
The tone of his laugh, with his self-satisfied look, told of his being
aught but angry with rumour for so representing him.
"Well, Excellentissimo," here put in the subordinate, "it don't much
signify what the world says, so long as one's conscience is clear."
"_Bravo--bravissimo_!" exclaimed the Most Excellent. "Ha, ha, ha!" he
continued, in still louder cachinnation. "Carlos Santander turned
moralist! And moralising to me! It's enough to make a horse laugh.
Ha, ha, ha!"
The staff-colonel appeared somewhat disconcerted, not knowing to what
all this might be tending. However, he ventured to remark--
"I am glad to find your Excellency in such good humour this morning."
"Ah! that's because you've come to ask some favour from me, I suppose."
Santa Anna had a habit of interlarding his most familiar and friendly
discourse with a little satire, sometimes very disagreeable to those he
conversed with. "But never mind," he rattled on, "though I confess some
surprise at your hypocrisy, which is all thrown away upon me, _amigo_!
I don't at all wonder at your success with the senoritas. You're a
handsome fellow, Don Carlos; and if it weren't for that scar on your
cheek--By the way, you never told me how you came by it. You hadn't it
when you were last with us."
The red flushed into Santander's face, and up over his forehead to the
roots of his hair. He had told no one in Mexico, nor anywhere else, how
he came by that ugly thing on his jaw, which beard could not conceal,
and which he felt as a brand of Cain.
"It's a scar of a sword-cut, your Excellency. I got it in a duel."
"Ah! An honourable wound, then. But where?"
"In New Orleans."
"Just the place for that sort of thing, as I know, having been there
myself." (Santa Anna had made a tour of the States, on _parole_, after
the battle of San Jacinto, where he was taken prisoner.) "A very den of
duellists is Nuevo Orleans; many of them _maitres d'escrime_. But who
was your antagonist? I hope you gave him as good as you got."
"I did, your Excellency; that, and more."
"You killed him?"
"Not quite. I would have done so, but that my second interposed, and
persuaded me to let him off."
"Well, he hasn't let you off, anyhow. What was the quarrel about?
_Carrai_! I needn't ask; the old orthodox cause--a lady, of course?"
"Nay; for once your Excellency is in error. Our _desajio_ originated in
something quite different."
"What thing?"
"An endeavour on my part to do a service to Mexico and its honoured
ruler."
"Oh, indeed! In what way, Senor Colonel?"
"That band of _filibusteros_, of which, as your Excellency will
remember--"
"Yes--yes," interrupted Santa Anna impatiently. He evidently knew all
about that, and preferred hearing no more of it. "It was one of the
_filibusteros_ you fought with, I suppose?"
"Yes, Excellentissimo; the one they chose for their captain."
"You were angry at his being preferred to yourself, and so called him
out? Well, that was cause enough to a man of your mettle. But what
became of him afterwards? Was he among those at Mier?"
"He was."
"Killed there?"
"No, your Excellency; only taken prisoner."
"Shot at Salado?"
"Neither that, Excellentissimo."
"Then he must be here?"
"He is here, your Excellency."
"What's his name?"
"Kearney--Florence Kearney, _un Irlandes_."
A peculiar expression came over Santa Anna's features, a sort of knowing
look, as much as to say the name was not new to him. Nor was it. That
very morning, only an hour before, Don Ignacio Valverde had audience of
him on a matter relating to this same man--Florence Kearney; in short,
to obtain clemency for the young Irishman--full pardon, if possible.
But the Minister had been dismissed with only vague promises. His
influence at court was still not very great, and about the motive for
his application--as also who it originated from--Santa Anna had
conceived suspicions.
Of all this he said nothing to the man before him now, simply
inquiring--
"Is the _Irlandes_ at Tacubaya?"
"No, your Excellency; he's in the Acordada."
"Since you had the disposal of the Tejano prisoners, I can understand
that," returned the Dictator, with a significant shrug. "It's about
him, then, you're here, I suppose. Well, what do you want?"
"Your authority, Excellentissimo, to punish him as he deserves."
"For making that tracing on your cheek, eh? You repent not having
punished him more at the time when you yourself had the power? Isn't it
so, Senor Colonel?"