Instead of answering in a like strain of enthusiasm, the man addressed tossed the loose end of his ruana over one shoulder, showing, as he did so, a pallid face on which played a contemptuous smile. "Soy un Americano," he replied composedly, glancing at Pedro and then turning his eyes, which were singularly piercing, from one to another of those crowding about him. "Un Yankee! Un Yankee! Baja los Yankees!" The cry was followed by a threatening movement of the emboladores toward the man whose attitude seemed to be a challenge to them. "Halt!" yelled Pedro. "I know this senor. Give him a chance. If he cheers Colombia, we will let him go. If he refuses, he is prisoner. Now, Senor Yankee--viva Colombia!" The emboladores gave a lusty cheer. It was met with scornful silence by the man who had declared himself a Yankee. "Si! Si! Pedro el Rey!" they all shouted. "He is an enemy to Colombia. He is prisoner!" The wily Pedro unwilling to risk his position by denying the demands of his followers, yet fearing to aid in an act of violence, diplomatically said nothing. The defiant American, meanwhile, regarded the peons with a disdain that enraged them, although checking, through its very audacity, their hostility. "I am not a Colombian," he said quietly; "I am not an enemy to Colombia. But I won't cheer against the Yankees." "Un Yankee! Un Yankee!" they retorted. "A Yankee thief come for our gold!" "There is truth in that," he laughed sardonically. "I want gold that you are too lazy to get for yourselves--just as you were too lazy to keep Panama." "Un loco! He is insane!" cried Pedro in disgust. "Let us go!" "No! No!" yelled the angry mob. And amid cries of "Loco! Demonio! Yankee! Puerco!" those in the front ranks made a lunge at the man whose exasperating coolness had kept them at bay, while a shower of missiles came from the peons who hovered in the rear. But the attack was skilfully met. Tripping up his first two assailants and warding off the blows of a third, the Yankee, smiling derisively, stealthily passed his left hand along the ponderous door against which he was leaning. This street door, as is usual in Colombian houses, had a small "postigo," or wicket, large enough to admit one person at a time, and opening much more readily than the unwieldy mass of timber of which it formed an insignificant part. Having found the latch of this wicket, the Yankee gave it a quick backward thrust, stepped lightly over the threshold and closed and barricaded this scarcely revealed entrance behind him.