I, too, stood absolutely still, and lifted my hand towards the hasp of the door.  And as I did so—­in all my career I cannot recall a nastier moment—­as my hand went up, it encountered another.  I felt the fingers closing on my wrist, and wrenched loose.  For a moment our two hands wrestled confusedly; but while mine tugged at the latch the other found the key and twisted it round with a click. (I had oiled the lock three nights before.) With that I flung myself on him, but again my adversary was too quick, for as I groped for his throat my chest struck against his uplifted knee, and I dropped on the floor and rolled there in intolerable pain.

No one spoke.  As I struggled to raise myself on hands and knees, I heard the chipping of steel on flint, and caught a glimpse of a face.  As its lips blew on the tinder this face vanished and reappeared, and at length grew steady in the blue light of the sulphur match.  It was not the face, however, on which my eyes rested in a stupid wonder, but the collar below it—­the scarlet collar and tunic of a British officer.

And yet the face may have had something to do with my bewilderment.  I like, at any rate, to think so; because I have been in corners quite as awkward, yet have never known myself so pitifully demoralised.  The uniform might be that of a British officer, but the face was that of Don Quixote de la Mancha, and shone at me in that blue light straight out of my childhood and the story-book.  High brow, high cheek-bone, long pointed jaw, lined and patient face—­I saw him as I had known him all my life, and I turned up at the other man, who stooped over me, a look of absurd surmise.

He was a Spanish peasant, short, thick-set and muscular, but assuredly no Sancho:  a quiet quick-eyed man, with a curious neat grace in his movements.  Our tussle had not heated him in the least.  His right fist rested on my back, and I knew he had a knife in it; and while I gasped for breath he watched me, his left hand hovering in front of my mouth to stop the first outcry.  Through his spread fingers I saw Don Quixote light the lantern and raise it for a good look at me.  And with that in a flash my wits came back, and with them the one bit of Gaelic known to me.

“Latha math leat” I gasped, and caught my breath again as the fingers closed softly on my jaw, “O Alan mhic Neill!”

The officer took a step and swung the lantern close to my eyes—­so close that I blinked.

“Gently, Jose.”  He let out a soft pleased laugh while he studied my face.  Then he spoke a word or two in Gaelic—­some question which I did not understand.

“My name is McNeill,” said I; “but that’s the end of my mother tongue.”

The Captain laughed again.  “We’ve caught the other one, Jose,” said he.  And Jose helped me to my feet—­respectfully, I thought.  “Now this,” his master went on, as if talking to himself, “this explains a good deal.”