Part 43

As he started for the door the girl called after him.

"Will you go again to-morrow, Vardos?"

"Yes, señorita. I will go forever, until I know for sure that it is useless. Good-night."

His words as he passed through the old portal were drowned by the cheering and applause which followed some especial favorite who had ended a song.

Dolores looked sadly at the basket, the tears streaming down her face. She lifted the napkin, showing the simple but nourishing food which had been untouched by the missing Prince. She crossed herself, with a whispered prayer for his safety, crossing the room to the ancient pantry.

The dreams of Pedro were rudely interrupted. The big door suddenly opened to admit a character very different from the weaklings who made his tavern their rendezvous. He was dark-skinned as the rest of the crew, red-faced as old Pedro (from the same faithful indulgence in vintages), not younger than forty, yet aggressive, vibrating with physical power, elasticity, and an overweening insolence. His manner of approach--and he entered this tavern with the same studied grace with which he swaggered into half a hundred others--seemed to indicate that he delighted in disorganizing and terrorizing whatever he might find established and orderly--wherever he might find it!

Beholding the somnolent proprietor, he advanced quietly to the middle of the big room. Then, with malicious enjoyment of the effect, he banged his riding-crop violently upon the table, close to the tavern keeper's ear.

"Hey, you Pedro!" he roared. "Wake up, you blockhead--wake up, I say!"

There was only a response of snores.

"You, Pedro, attention! What's the matter here? Where are you? Wake up and stop your dreaming!"

At this the startled landlord leaped to his feet, bowing through force of habit.

"Ah, Señor Robledo! One thousand pardons!" he gasped timorously. "What can I do for you, sir?"

"You're a wretch of a tavern keeper," and the newcomer advanced upon the unhappy Pedro as though about to slay him for his drowsiness.

"Yes, señor! You are always right." The man humbly endeavored to collect his wits. "How may I serve your lordship?"

The bully swaggered, puffed his cheeks, and feeling that his host was finally awake to the seriousness of the situation, he cried out once more: "My horse stands outside by the post. He has been hard ridden, for I have come on an important mission. Varlet, go out and wash his mouth, dry him down, and don't give him water until he has cooled off. Are you finally awake, you idiotic Pedro?"

The tavern keeper gulped fearsomely, and bowed his most fetching bow, without result.

"My horse is almost dead on his legs. Be kind to him. I've had a hard ride over these miserable province roads. As for me--I want a flask of ... well ... of something decent. I know that's not in your line. Step lively now; and mind you, draw it from your private cask. My temper is no better than it should be, to-night."

The old man bowed and started to leave the big room.

The blustering guest howled at him once more, punctuating his remarks with the butt of the whip.

"Where's your daughter?"

The old man trembled and bowed once more.

"I'll call her," Pedro said apologetically. "She'll be right here, sir."

He went to the door at the right, and shouted quaveringly: "Dolores! Dolores! Dolores!... There, señor, she will come at once."

"And, Pedro--if that rat-infested larder of yours is empty, get it filled before the Duke arrives," added Robledo. "Yes ... the Duke. He is coming to-night. Don't stand and stare, but hurry up and see to my horse."

"Yes, señor!... Yes, yes!"

And he tottered away on his errands.

Dolores had entered in response to the call. At first she did not observe the newcomer, whose back was toward her.

"Yes, father," she began. "Why do you wish me?"