It is infamous! Ashley leaps to his feet and paces the cell like a raging lion, and shakes the iron door with impotent energy.
“Pshaw!” he cries, and laughs recklessly. “What is the use in wasting my strength and nerves in this manner? Courage, Jack. If the senorita is to be saved, and yourself incidentally, you will need all of your strength and nerve. Let’s take an account of stock.” And he falls to meditating again.
How come Captain Huerta and his men to be at Santos at this hour of the night? Sent by Truenos, who perhaps has ordered Don Quesada’s arrest, or, if he knows of the latter’s flight, has ordered the quinta to be searched. How came Juanita to leave for home without bidding him adios? She could not have been so piqued by jealousy or by his good-natured banter that she would have left the palace without even a cold farewell. Isabel’s work, without a doubt. Why has he been set upon by a horde of ruffians and thrust into a cell? Because his presence at Santos would interfere with some devilish plans afoot. Again Isabel’s work, assisted by Captain Huerta.
But what vile plot is maturing outside the walls of El Calabozo de Infierno while he lies helpless here? As he thinks of Juanita he grits his teeth in suppressed fury and chews his cigar to a pulp.
As for his captor’s gratuitous information, that he is to be executed in the morning, nonsense! That is what an American would term a cold bluff. They would not dare to proceed to such an extremity. They have gone to dangerous lengths already.
At this moment his meditations are broken in upon by a key being inserted in the cell door. The door swings open and closes behind Father Hilario, the venerable padre of the little church of San Pedro. At sight of the priest, Ashley’s composure returns.
“Good-morning, father,” is his salutation. “I noticed you at the entrance to my lodgings for the night, and I should have spoken, but my friends rather insisted on my maintaining a strict silence. I believe ‘callese’ means keep your mouth shut, or something of that sort, does it not?”
“I have but a short time to remain,” says Father Hilario, surveying with some wonder the composed face of the young man before him.
“Well, whatever your errand may be, I am indebted to you for this visit,” remarks Jack. “It’s confoundedly lonesome here. I will not apologize for my apartment, as it is not of my own selection. Now, what can I do for you, father, or what can you do for me?”
“My son, you are not of the faith of Rome, but I have called to offer you the consolation which a clergyman can extend in your last hours.”