A peculiar expression came over Santa Anna's features, a sort of knowing
look, as much as to say the name was not new to him. Nor was it. That
very morning, only an hour before, Don Ignacio Valverde had audience of
him on a matter relating to this same man--Florence Kearney; in short,
to obtain clemency for the young Irishman--full pardon, if possible.
But the Minister had been dismissed with only vague promises. His
influence at court was still not very great, and about the motive for
his application--as also who it originated from--Santa Anna had
conceived suspicions.

Of all this he said nothing to the man before him now, simply
inquiring--

"Is the _Irlandes_ at Tacubaya?"

"No, your Excellency; he's in the Acordada."

"Since you had the disposal of the Tejano prisoners, I can understand
that," returned the Dictator, with a significant shrug. "It's about
him, then, you're here, I suppose. Well, what do you want?"

"Your authority, Excellentissimo, to punish him as he deserves."

"For making that tracing on your cheek, eh? You repent not having
punished him more at the time when you yourself had the power? Isn't it
so, Senor Colonel?"

Santander's face reddened, as he made reply--

"Not altogether, your Excellency. There's something besides, for which
he deserves to be treated differently from the others."

Santa Anna could have given a close guess at what the exceptional
something was. To his subtle perception a little love drama was
gradually being disclosed; but he kept his thoughts to himself, with his
eyes still searchingly fixed on Santander's face.

"This Kearney," continued the latter, "though an Irishman, is one of
Mexico's bitterest enemies, and especially bitter against your
Excellency. In a speech he made to the _filibusteros_, he called you a
usurper, tyrant, traitor to liberty and your country--ay, even coward.
Pardon me for repeating the vile epithets he made use of."

Santa Anna's eyes now scintillated with a lurid sinister light, as if
filled with fire, ready to blaze out. In the American newspapers he had
often seen his name coupled with such opprobrious phrases, but never
without feeling savagely wrathful. And not the less that his own innate
consciousness told him it was all as said.

"_Chingara_!" he hissed out, for he was not above using this vulgar
exclamation. "If it is true what you say, Don Carlos, as I presume it
is, you can do as you like with this dog of an