A thought struck him, and he smiled wickedly.
“You will always bear in mind,” he said, “that the moment I become suspicious that you are directing us wide, or, worse, into a guet-apens, I shall snap off your little head at the neck, and roll it back to San Lorenzo.”
“Have no fear,” she said quietly; “we are in the straight road for the town—or what used to be one.”
“And no shelter by the way? I run ahead of my rascals, as you see. We must halt while they overtake us. Besides”—he leered horribly—“there is the question of the night.”
“I know of no shelter,” she said, “but Our Lady of Refuge.”
“An opportune title, at least. What is it?”
“It is a hospital for the fallen—for such as the good Brotherhoods of Madrid send for rest and restoration to the sanctuary of the quiet pastures. The monks of Misericorde are the Brothers’ deputies there—sad, holy men, who hide their faces from the world. The house stands solitary on the plain; we shall see it in a little. They will give you shelter, though you are their country’s enemies. They make no distinctions.”
De Regnac pulled at his moustache, frowning, pondering.
“Where these monks forgather are fat kids and old Malaga—a tempting alternative to the munching of cold biscuit under the stars. But—sacré chien! one may always take in more with the gravy than ever fell from the spit. What, then!”
He jerked his feet peevishly in the stirrups, and growled—