“I hope he has not hurt himself,” broke in another voice mischievously.
“Answer, you clumsy villain,” whispered Lee, with twinkling eyes.
“I'm all right, thank you,” responded Falkner, with unaffected awkwardness.
There was a slight murmuring of voices, and then the door was heard to close. Lee turned to Falkner.
“Disarm that hound and turn him loose outside, and make no noise. And you, Manuel! tell him what his and your chances are if he shows his black face here again.”
Manuel cast a single, terrified, supplicating glance, more suggestive than words, at his confederate, as Falkner shoved him before him from the room. The next moment they were silently descending the stairs.
“May I go too, captain?” entreated Manuel. “I swear to God—”
“Shut the door!” The man obeyed.
“Now, then,” said Lee, with a broad, gratified smile, laying down his whip and pistol within reach, and comfortably settling the pillows behind his back, “we'll have a quiet confab. A sort of old-fashioned talk, eh? You're not looking well, Manuel. You're drinking too much again. It spoils your complexion.”
“Let me go, captain,” pleaded the man, emboldened by the good-humored voice, but not near enough to notice a peculiar light in the speaker's eye.