“Mayor Shaughness’,” he said; “oh, no; not Mayor Shaughness’!”

Pauline could stay no longer; escape she must, though it be in Manuel Mazaro’s very face.  Turning again and looking up into Galahad’s face in a great fright, she opened her lips to speak, but—­

“Mayor Shaughness’,” continued the Cuban; “he nev’r-a lo-va you’ thaughter.”

Galahad was putting the maiden back from the door with his hand.

“Pauline,” he said, “it’s a lie!”

“An’, Senor,” pursued the Cuban, “if a was possiblee you’ thaughter to lo-va heem, a-wouth-a be worse-a kine in worlt; but, Senor, I”—­

M. D’Hemecourt made a majestic sign for silence.  He had resumed his chair, but be rose up once more, took the Cuban’s hat from the table and tendered it to him.

“Manuel Mazaro, you ’ave”—­

“Senor, I goin’ tell you”—­

“Manuel Mazaro, you”—­

“Boat-a Senor”—­

“Bud, Manuel Maz”—­

“Senor, escuse-a me”—­

“Huzh!” cried the old man.  “Manuel Mazaro, you ave deceive’ me!  You ’ave mocque me, Manu”—­

“Senor,” cried Mazaro, “I swear-a to you that all-a what I sayin’ ees-a”—­

He stopped aghast.  Galahad and Pauline stood before him.

“Is what?” asked the blue-eyed man, with a look of quiet delight on his face, such as Mazaro instantly remembered to have seen on it one night when Galahad was being shot at in the Sucking Calf Restaurant in St. Peter Street.

The table was between them, but Mazaro’s hand went upward toward the back of his coat-collar.

“Ah, ah!” cried the Irishman, shaking his head with a broader smile and thrusting his hand threateningly into his breast; “don’t ye do that! just finish yer speech.”

“Was-a notthin’,” said the Cuban, trying to smile back.

“Yer a liur,” said Galahad.

“No,” said Mazaro, still endeavoring to smile through his agony; “z-was on’y tellin’ Senor D’Hemecourt someteen z-was t-thrue.”

“And I tell ye,” said Galahad, “ye’r a liur, and to be so kind an’ get yersel’ to the front stoop, as I’m desiruz o’ kickin’ ye before the crowd.”

“Madjor!” cried D’Hemecourt—­

“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 cafe, 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.