“Yes.”
“And––by the way, has Wenceslas been misbehaving of late?––for when he does, somebody other than himself has to settle the score.”
Josè remained silent.
“Ah,” mused Diego, “but Don Wenceslas is artful. And yet, I think I see the direction of his trained hand in this.” Then he burst into a rude laugh. “Come, amigo,” he said, noting Josè’s dejected mien; “let us have your story. We may be able to advise. And we’ve had experience––eh, Don Jorge?”
But Josè slowly shook his head. What mattered it now? Simití would serve as well to bury him as any other tomb. He knew he was sent as a lamb to the slaughter. But it was his affair––and his God’s. Honor and conscience had presented the score; and he was paying in full. His was not a story to be bandied about by lewd priests like Padre Diego.
“No,” he replied to the Padre’s insistent solicitations; “with your permission, we will talk of it no more.”
“But––Hombre!” cried the Padre at last, in his coarse way stirred by Josè’s evident truthfulness. “Well––as you wish––I will not pry into your secrets. But, take a bit of counsel from one who knows: when you reach Simití, inquire for a man who hates me, one Rosendo Ariza––”
At this juncture the Honda’s diabolical whistle pierced the murky night air.
“Caramba!” cried Don Jorge, starting up. “Are they going to try the river to-night?” And the men hurried back to the landing.
The moon was up, and the boat was getting under way. Padre Diego went aboard to take leave of his friends.