"Go," said Galahad, advancing a step toward the Cuban.

Had Manuel Mazaro wished to personate the prince of darkness, his
beautiful face had the correct expression for it. He slowly turned,
opened the door into the café, sent one glowering look behind, and
disappeared.

Pauline laid her hand upon her lover's arm.

"Madjor," began her father.

"Oh, Madjor and Madjor," said the Irishman; "Munsher D'Hemecourt, just
say 'Madjor, heer's a gude wife fur ye,' and I'll let the little serpent
go."

Thereupon, sure enough, both M. D'Hemecourt and his daughter, rushing
together, did what I have been hoping all along, for the reader's sake,
they would have dispensed with; they burst into tears; whereupon the
Major, with his Irish appreciation of the ludicrous, turned away to hide
his smirk and began good-humoredly to scratch himself first on the
temple and then on the thigh.

Mazaro passed silently through the group about the door-steps, and not
many minutes afterward, Galahad Shaughnessy, having taken a place among
the exiles, rose with the remark that the old gentleman would doubtless
be willing to tell them good-night. Good-night was accordingly said, the
Café des Exilés closed her windows, then her doors, winked a moment or
two through the cracks in the shutters and then went fast asleep.