A tall figure, followed by a man bearing a torch, entered
the doorway.
The man was Francisco Alvarez, but neither Paul nor Long Jim rose, Paul
because he disliked the Spaniard and considered him a bitter enemy of his
people, Long Jim because he saw no reason why he should rise for anybody.
Alvarez looked down at them and the sight of the two caused him a mixture
of anger and triumph. His wound still stung, but at the bottom of his
heart was a feeling that he had deserved it. In the presence of his own
retainers, and with all the circumstances in his favor, he had sought to
humiliate a boy. But this faint feeling was not enough to induce
corresponding action. He was also something of a statesman, and he saw the
power behind these two who had come out of the woods. They were foresters,
they wore the tanned skin of the deer, but they belonged to the soil; they
were natives, while he, in all his brilliant uniform and gold lace, was a
foreigner, merely the long, extended arm of a power four thousand miles
away. The two were but a vanguard, others would come and yet others in a
volume, always increasing. The only possibility of saving Louisiana was to
cut off the stream at the fountain head, while it was yet a thin and
trickling rill, and he, Francisco Alvarez, was the man for the deed.
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