"That is written."
"May I ask upon what subject?"
"The fiend take me if I know yet! But it is written, safe enough."
"Ah, I see! We go to Salvatierra? Yes, yes, but what of me, who know scarcely any Latin beyond my credo?"
"Why, that is where I feel a certain delicacy. Having respect to your rank, caballero, I do not like to propose that you should become my servant."
"I am your servant already, and for a week past I have been an Asturian. It will be promotion."
He sprang up gaily. "What a comrade is mine!" he cried, flinging away the end of his cigarette. "To Salvatierra, then—Santiago, and close Spain!"
Darkness overtook us as we climbed down the slopes: but we pushed on, Fuentes leading the way boldly. Evidently he had come to familiar ground. But it was midnight before he brought me, by an abominable road, to a farmstead the walls of which showed themselves ruinous even in the starlight—for moon there was none. At an angle of the building, which once upon a time had been whitewashed, rose a solid tower, with a doorway and an iron-studded door, and a narrow window overlooking it. In spite of the hour, Fuentes advanced nonchalantly and began to bang the door, making noise enough to wake the dead. The window above was presently opened—one could hear, with a shaking hand. "Who is there?" asked a man's voice no less tremulous. "Who are you, for the love of God?"
"Gente de paz, my dear brother!—not your friends the French. I hope, by the way, you are entertaining none."
"I have been in bed these four hours or five. 'Peace,' say you? I wish you would take your own risks and leave me in peace! What is it you want, this time?"