A last spark of defiance flared in the indomitable man. "My mother wasn't an old-maid she-cat," he muttered. But instinctively, in spite of his courage, his voice had sunk too low to be heard.
"I have a son," began the widow, again. "He----"
"Lordie, but I'd like to see the little nincompoop!" said the inspector.
But the widow was unshakable in her good humour. She ordered a room prepared for Mr. Rued, and later sent him a cup of tea of her own brew, which he promptly threw into the face of the astonished muchacho.
They started again at sun-up. They left the road and filed along a narrow and steep trail. The widow insisted upon a chaise. One was improvised out of bamboo; and thus, as the shadows of night crept up the flanks of Taal, she made her triumphal entry into camp upon the shoulders of the four strongest colonels.
Papa Gato had watched the procession winding up to him through the high fern, but as it neared a sudden timidity sent him back to his hut. Gomez found him there, in great indecision, alternately twirling his little moustache and rearranging upon his breast the seventeen medals he had decreed upon himself for extraordinary valour.
"Greetings!" he said, with a forced air of decision. "Have you been successful?"
Gomez took off his sombrero and mopped his brow. "I have her--and the dinero--and a constabulary inspector," he answered evasively.
"And she is here!" whispered Gato with emotion. "I suppose I should go greet her."
"Sure!" said Gomez detachedly; "go on to her; I am tired, I'll wait here."
And throwing himself upon the cot, he turned his face to the wall.
But as his chief left the cabin, he sprang up like one possessed, rushed to the door and peered maliciously outside.
Indistinct in the gloaming, a feminine form could be descried, regally erect, upon the high-borne chaise. Gato approached with beating heart.
"Do not fear, señorita; we shall not harm you," he said softly. "You are our guest; the house is yours----"
There was a sudden movement of the enigmatic figure upon the chaise. A furious slap sent his sombrero whirling to the ground.
"You boorish little boy, you," rasped the voice of the widow; "you little brute! What do you mean, _what_ do you mean by standing with your hat on, before an American lady!"