Giving way to sweet imaginings, I stood for some seconds under the
shadow of the portal.
Meanwhile the Mexican had passed out of the street.
As I believed that he had gone back to the saloon we had both lately
forsaken, I started in the same direction.
I now longed to have a conversation with him; determined in my own mind
that it should be more cordial than any that had yet taken place between
us. I could at that moment have embraced him: for my gratitude,
hitherto restrained by the thought of his being my rival, was suddenly
exalted to a feeling of fervour.
I should seek an interview with the noble youth; make known who it was
he had befriended; and ask if there was any way in which I could
reciprocate his generosity?
My heart was overflowing towards Francisco Moreno! As he had been the
cause of my late misery, I now looked upon him as the instrument of my
regeneration.
"Oh! I shall make an ample return to him! But what is it to be?"
Just as I gave thought to the interrogatory, a harsh sound struck upon
my ears--as if some one, suddenly stopped in the street, had uttered a
cry of mixed anger and surprise. It was followed by the words:
"_Que cosa caballeros? Que cosa comigo_?" (What is it, gentlemen?
What do you want with me?)
"_Vuestra bolsa, senor; nada mas_" (Your purse, sir; nothing more.)
"_Carrambo_! A modest demand! For all that, I'm not inclined to comply
with it. You may have my purse; but not till after you've taken my
life. Out of the way, scoundrels! Let me pass!"
"Upon him, _camarados_! He is loaded with doblones. _Al tierra_! Down
with him!"
These words--not very loudly spoken--were succeeded by the sounds of a
struggle, in which several men appeared to take part; five or six, as I
could tell by the shuffling of their shoes upon the flagged pavement.
I no longer heard words; or only a few, that seemed spoken under
restraint, and scarce louder than whispers!
Even he who had first called out appeared to have become suddenly
silent!
For all that the struggle was continuing!
The street in which it was taking place was a sort of narrow passage--
leading from one of the main thoroughfares towards the Piazza Grande--
and not far from the entrance to the Calle del Obispo.
It was dimly illumined by a solitary lard lamp, whose feeble flickering
only served to make the path more uncertain.
I had myself entered the lane--which chanced to be a near cut between
the cafe to which I was returning, and the "calle" I had left behind.
It was just as I had got into it that the cry fell upon my ears,
followed by the challenge "_Que cosa caballeros_?"
The rest of the dialogue did not occupy ten seconds of time, before the
conflict commenced; and, as the scene of strife was not more than ten
paces from where I had paused, another half-score of seconds carried me
up to the spot.
I had been thus prompt in rushing to the rescue, because I fancied that
I knew the voice of the man who was being assaulted.