Pauline was in a great tremor.  She made as if she would have opened the door and fled, but the Irishman gave a gesture of earnest protest and re-assurance.  The re-opened door might make the back parlor of the Cafe des Exiles a scene of blood.  Thinking of this, what could she do?  She staid.

“You goth a heap-a thro-vle, Senor,” said Manuel Mazaro, taking the seat so lately vacated.  He had patted M. D’Hemecourt tenderly on the back and the old gentleman had flinched; hence the remark, to which there was no reply.

“Was a bee crowth a’ the Cafe the Refugies,” continued the young man.

“Bud, w’ere dad Madjor Shaughnessy?” demanded M. D’Hemecourt, with the little sternness he could command.

“Mayor Shaughness’—­yez-a; was there; boat-a,” with a disparaging smile and shake of the head, “he woon-a come-a to you.  Senor, oh’ no.”

The old man smiled bitterly.

“Non?” he asked.

“Oh, no, Senor!” Mazaro drew his chair closer.  “Senor;” he paused,—­“eez a-vary bath-a fore-a you thaughter, eh?”

“W’at?” asked the host, snapping like a tormented dog.

“D-theze talkin’ ’bou’,” answered the young man; “d-theze coffee-howces noth a goo’ plaze-a fore hore, eh?”

The Irishman and the maiden looked into each other’s eyes an instant, as people will do when listening; but Pauline’s immediately fell, and when Mazaro’s words were understood, her blushes became visible even by moonlight.

“He’s r-right!” emphatically whispered Galahad.

She attempted to draw back a step, but found herself against the shelves.  M. D’Hemecourt had not answered.  Mazaro spoke again.

“Boat-a you canno’ help-a, eh?  I know, ‘out-a she gettin’ marry, eh?”

Pauline trembled.  Her father summoned all his force and rose as if to ask his questioner to leave him; but the handsome Cuban motioned him down with a gesture that seemed to beg for only a moment more.

“Senor, if a-was one man whath lo-va you’ thaughter, all is possiblee to lo-va.”

Pauline, nervously braiding some bits of wire which she had unconsciously taken from a shelf, glanced up—­against her will,—­into the eyes of Galahad.  They were looking so steadily down upon her that with a great leap of the heart for joy she closed her own and half turned away.  But Mazaro had not ceased.

“All is possiblee to lo-va, Senor, you shouth-a let marry hore an’ tak’n ’way frone d’these plaze, Senor.”

“Manuel Mazaro,” said M. D’Hemecourt, again rising, “you ’ave say enough.”

“No, no, Senor; no, no; I want tell-a you—­is a-one man—­whath lo-va you’ thaughter; an’ I knowce him!”

Was there no cause for quarrel, after all?  Could it be that Mazaro was about to speak for Galahad?  The old man asked in his simplicity: 

“Madjor Shaughnessy?”

Mazaro smiled mockingly.