“Bless yer soul, Munsher D’Himecourt,” interrupted the Irishman.  “Wut’s the use o’ grapplin’ two cut-throats, when”—­

“Madjor Shaughnessy!” cried M. D’Hemecourt, losing all self-control.  “H-I am nod a cud-troad, Madjor Shaughnessy, h-an I ’ave a r-r-righd to wadge you.”

The Major rose from his chair.

“What d’ye mean?” he asked vacantly, and then:  “Look-ut here, Munsher D’Himecourt, one of uz is crazy.  I say one”—­

“No, sar-r-r!” cried the other, rising and clenching his trembling fist.  “H-I am not crezzy.  I ’ave de righd to wadge dad man wad mague rimark aboud me dotter.”

“I never did no such a thing.”

“You did.”

“I never did no such a thing.”

“Bud you ’ave jus hacknowledge’—­”

“I never did no such a thing, I tell ye, and the man that’s told ye so is a liur!”

“Ah-h-h-h!” said the old man, wagging his finger “Ah-h-h-h!  You call Manuel Mazaro one liar?”

The Irishman laughed out.

“Well, I should say so!”

He motioned the old man into his chair, and both sat down again.

“Why, Munsher D’Himecourt, Mazaro’s been keepin’ me away from heer with a yarn about two Spaniards watchin’ for me.  That’s what I came in to ask ye about.  My dear sur, do ye s’pose I wud talk about the goddess—­I mean, yer daughter—­to the likes o’ Mazaro—­I say to the likes o’ Mazaro?”

To say the old man was at sea would be too feeble an expression—­he was in the trough of the sea, with a hurricane of doubts and fears whirling around him.  Somebody had told a lie, and he, having struck upon its sunken surface, was dazed and stunned.  He opened his lips to say he knew not what, when his ear caught the voice of Manuel Mazaro, replying to the greeting of some of his comrades outside the front door.

“He is comin’!” cried the old man.  “Mague you’sev hide, Madjor; do not led ’im kedge you, Mon Dieu!”

The Irishman smiled.

“The little yellow wretch!” said he quietly, his blue eyes dancing.  “I’m goin’ to catch him.”

A certain hidden hearer instantly made up her mind to rush out between the two young men and be a heroine.

“Non, non!” exclaimed M. D’Hemecourt excitedly.  “Nod in de Cafe des Exiles—­nod now, Madjor.  Go in dad door, hif you pliz, Madjor.  You will heer ’im w’at he ‘ave to say.  Mague you’sev de troub’.  Nod dad door—­diz one.”

The Major laughed again and started toward the door indicated, but in an instant stopped.

“I can’t go in theyre,” he said.  “That’s yer daughter’s room.”

“Oui, oui, mais!” cried the other softly, but Mazaro’s step was near.

“I’ll just slip in heer,” and the amused Shaughnessy tripped lightly to the closet door, drew it open in spite of a momentary resistance from within which he had no time to notice, stepped into a small recess full of shelves and bottles, shut the door, and stood face to face—­the broad moonlight shining upon her through a small, high-grated opening on one side—­with Pauline.  At the same instant the voice of the young Cuban sounded in the room.