“I see. But remember that, whatever your motives, your worship countenanced him in this lie.”
The bright unhappy eyes on each side of a predatory nose confronted Byrne without wincing, while with that testiness which lurks so often at the bottom of Spanish dignity—
“No doubt the señor officer would not lose an ounce of blood if I were stuck under the fifth rib,” he retorted. “But what of this poor sinner here?” Then changing his tone. “Señor, by the necessities of the times I live here in exile, a Castilian and an old Christian, existing miserably in the midst of these brute Asturians, and dependent on the worst of them all, who has less conscience and scruples than a wolf. And being a man of intelligence I govern myself accordingly. Yet I can hardly contain my scorn. You have heard the way I spoke. A caballero of parts like your worship might have guessed that there was a cat in there.”
“What cat?” said Byrne uneasily. “Oh, I see. Something suspicious. No, señor. I guessed nothing. My nation are not good guessers at that sort of thing; and, therefore, I ask you plainly whether that wine-seller has spoken the truth in other particulars?”
“There are certainly no Frenchmen anywhere about,” said the little man with a return to his indifferent manner.
“_Ladrones en grande_—no! Assuredly not,” was the answer in a cold philosophical tone. “What is there left for them to do after the French? And nobody travels in these times. But who can say! Opportunity makes the robber. Still that mariner of yours has a fierce aspect, and with the son of a cat rats will have no play. But there is a saying, too, that where honey is there will soon be flies.”
This oracular discourse exasperated Byrne. “In the name of God,” he cried, “tell me plainly if you think my man is reasonably safe on his journey.”
The homunculus, undergoing one of his rapid changes, seized the officer’s arm. The grip of his little hand was astonishing.
“Señor! Bernardino had taken notice of him. What more do you want? And listen—men have disappeared on this road—on a certain portion of this road, when Bernardino kept a _meson_, an inn, and I, his brother-in-law, had coaches and mules for hire. Now there are no travellers, no coaches. The French have ruined me. Bernardino has retired here for reasons of his own after my sister died. They were three to torment the life out of her, he and Erminia and Lucilla, two aunts of his—all affiliated to the devil. And now he has robbed me of my last mule. You are an armed man. Demand the _macho_ from him, with a pistol to his head, señor—it is not his, I tell you—and ride after your man who is so precious to you. And then you shall both be safe, for no two travellers have been ever known to disappear together in these days. As to the beast, I, its owner, I confide it to your honour.”