morning.
"As it is so," the General said, "let him come."
"Why," the Colonel continued, "refuse to listen to the propositions this man is authorized to offer you?"
"What good is it at this moment? There is always a time to do so if circumstances compel it. Now our situation is excellent; we have not to accept proposals, but, on the contrary, are in a position to impose those that may suit us."
These words were uttered in a tone that compelled the Colonel to silence; he bowed respectfully, and withdrew softly from the circle of officers. At the same moment John Davis arrived, led by the aide-de-camp. The American's face was gloomy and frowning; he saluted the General by raising his hand to his hat, but did not remove it; then he drew himself up haughtily and crossed his hands on his chest. The General regarded him for a moment with repressed curiosity.
"What do you want?" he asked him.
"The fulfilment of your promise," Davis replied drily.
"I do not understand you."
"What do you say? When you made me a prisoner this morning, in contempt of the military code and the laws of nations, did you not tell me that so soon as we reached the mainland, the liberty you had deprived me of by an unworthy abuse of strength, would be immediately restored to me?"
"I did say so," the General answered meekly.
"Well, I demand the fulfilment of that promise; I ought to have left your camp long ago."
"Did you not tell me that you were deputed to me by the rebel army, in order to submit certain propositions?"
"Yes, but you refused to hear me."
"Because the moment was not favourable for such a communication. Imperious duties prevented me then giving your words all the attention that they doubtless deserve."
"Well, and now?"
"Now I am ready to listen to you."
The American looked at the officers that surrounded him.
"Before all these persons?" he asked.
"Why not? These Caballeros belong to the staff of my army, they are as interested as I am in this interview."
"Perhaps so: still, I would observe, General, that it would be better for our discussion to be private."
"I am the sole judge, Señor, of the propriety of my actions. If it please you to be silent, be so; if not, speak, I am listening."
"There is one thing I wish to settle first."
"What is it?"
"Do you regard me as an envoy, or merely as your prisoner?"
"Why this question, whose purport I do not understand?"
"Pardon me, General," he said with an ironical smile, "but you understand me perfectly well, and so do these Caballeros—if a prisoner, you have the right to force silence upon me; as a deputy, on the other hand, I enjoy certain immunities, under, the protection of which I can speak frankly and clearly, and no one can bid me be silent, so long as I do not go beyond the limits of my mission. That is the reason why I wish first to settle my position with you."
"Your position has not changed to my knowledge. You are an envoy of rebels."
"Oh, you recognise it now?"
"I always did so."
"Why did you make me a prisoner, then?"
"You are shifting the question. I explained to you a moment ago, for what reason I was, to my great regret, compelled to defer our interview till a more favourable moment, that is all."
"Very good, I am willing to admit it. Be kind enough, General, to read this letter," he added, as he drew from his pocket a large envelope, which, at a sign from the General, he handed to him.
Night had fallen some time before, and two soldiers brought up torches of acote-wood, which one of the aides-de-camp lit. The General opened the letter and read it attentively, by the ruddy light of the torches. When he had finished reading, he folded up the letter again pensively, and thrust it into the breast of his uniform. There was a moment's silence, which the General at last broke.
"Who is the man who gave you this letter?"
"Did you not read his signature?"
"He may have employed a go-between."
"With me, that is not necessary."
"Then, he is here?"
"I have not to tell you who sent me, but merely discuss with you the proposals contained in the letter."
The General gave a passionate start.
"Reply, Señor, to the questions I do you the honour of asking you," he said, "if you do not wish to have reasons for repenting."
"What is the use of threatening me, General? You will learn nothing from me," he answered firmly.
"As it is so, listen to me attentively, and carefully weigh your answer, before opening your mouth to give it."
"Speak, General."
"This moment,—you understand, this moment, Señor, you will confess to me, where the man is who gave you this letter, if not—"
"Well?" the American nominally interrupted.
"Within ten minutes you will be hanging from a branch of that tree, close to you."
Davis gave him a disdainful glance.
"On my soul," he said ironically, "you Mexicans have a strange way of treating envoys."
"I do not recognise the right of a scoundrel, who is outlawed for his crimes, and whose head is justly forfeited, to send me envoys, and treat with me on an equal footing."
"The man whom you seek in vain to brand, General, is a man of heart, as you know better than anybody else. But gratitude is as offensive to you as it is to all haughty minds, and you cannot forgive the person to whom we allude, for having saved, not only your life, but also your honour."
John Davis might have gone on speaking much longer, for the General, who was as pale as a corpse, and whose features were contracted by a terrible emotion he sought in vain to master, seemed incapable of uttering a syllable. Colonel Melendez had quietly approached the circle. For some minutes he had listened to the words the speakers interchanged, with gradually augmenting passion; judging it necessary, therefore, to interpose ere matters had reached such a point as rendered any hope of conciliation impossible, he said to John Davis, as he laid his hand on his shoulder:
"Silence! You are under the lion's claw, take care that it does not rend you."
"Under the tiger's claw you mean, Colonel Melendez," he exclaimed, with much animation. "What! Shall I listen calmly to an insult offered the noblest heart, the greatest man, the most devoted and sincere patriot, and not attempt to defend him and confound his calumniator? Come, Colonel, that would be cowardice, and you know me well enough to feel assured that no consideration of personal safety would force me to do so."
"Enough," the General interrupted him, in a loud voice, "that man is right; under the influence of painful reminiscences I uttered words that I sincerely regret. I should wish them forgotten."
John Davis bowed courteously.
"General," he said, respectfully, "I thank you for this retraction; I expected nothing less from your sense of honour."
The General made no answer; he walked rapidly up and down, suffering from a violent agitation.
The officers, astonished at this strange scene, which they did not at all understand, looked restlessly at each other, though not venturing to express their surprise otherwise. The General walked up to John Davis and stopped in front of him.
"Master Davis," he said to him, in a harsh and