“Rum!” The man’s eyes dilated. “Caramba! my throat is like the ashes of purgatory!”
“Come, then,” said the woman, holding Carmen tightly by the hand and leading the way down the steps to the kitchen below. Arriving there, she lighted an oil lamp and hurriedly set out food and a large garrafón of Jamaica rum.
“There, compadre, is a part of your reward. And we will now wait until Padre Diego arrives, is it not so?”
While the men ate and drank voraciously, interpolating their actions at frequent intervals with bits of vivid comment on their river trip, the woman cast many anxious glances toward the steps leading to the floor above. From time to 234 time she replenished Ricardo’s glass, and urged him to drink. The man needed no invitation. Physical exhaustion and short rations while on the river had prepared him for just what the woman most desired to accomplish, and as glass after glass of the fiery liquor burned its way down his throat, she saw his scant wit fading, until at last it deserted him completely, and he sank into a drunken torpor. Then, motioning to Julio, who had consumed less of the rum, she seized the senseless Ricardo by the feet, and together they dragged him out into the patio and threw him under a platano tree.
“But, señorita––” began Julio in remonstrance, as thoughts of Diego’s wrath filtered through his befuddled brain.
“Not a word, hombre!” she commanded, turning upon him. “If you lay a hand upon this child my knife shall find your heart!”
“But––my pay?”
“How much did Padre Diego say he would give you?” she demanded.
“Three pesos oro––and rations,” replied the man thickly.
“Wait here, then, and I will bring you the money.”