Miguel Bunol stood in front of his weak, helpless captive in a room of the crumbling castle of Lochleven. The bare room was lighted by a torch thrust into a great crack in the wall. There was no furniture in the place. Dunbar Budthorne sat on the floor, with his back against the wall.
Bunol’s arms were folded. His head was bowed a little, and he was steadily regarding Budthorne from beneath his black eyebrows.
“Well,” said the captive, weakly, “have you come to finish me?”
The Spaniard made a gesture of remonstrance with his gloved hand.
“How can you ask such a foolish question, my dear friend?” he said.
“Don’t call me your friend!” exclaimed Budthorne, with a slight show of resentment and spirit. “I am no friend to such a wretch as you!”
“Then let me assure you that I am your friend. I am deeply interested in you, else I should not have taken all this trouble to-night.”
Something like a mirthless, mocking laugh came from the lips of the prisoner.
“A fine, friendly act!” said Budthorne. “It is the act of a solicitous friend to fall on one, sandbag him and carry him off by force to a place like this, I suppose! Where are the rest of your ruffians?”
“They are near enough to come at my call should I need them,” said Bunol. “Never mind them. I wished to have a little private chat with you, and they kindly retired to give me that privilege.”