The Voice in the Inn
“No trifling, señor. Speak up plainly and say what you heard.” The prosecuting attorney gave a nervous twitch at his pointed beard, a habit peculiar to him, and leaned a little toward the witness. The elder judge blinked drowsily, straightened in his chair, then turned and looked at the crucifix on the wall, for when the sun touched the bloody figure on the cross it was time for lunch. It was still in shadow. He sighed. His associates of the tribunal were duly attent.
“I’m afraid you will not believe me,” objected the witness.
“Never mind your fears. Come, now: You were passing the deserted inn on the Minas road, you say, when you heard a voice. The voice of one of the brigands?”
“I hardly think so, señor.”
“How? You charge this defendant here ——”
“With attempted robbery. Yes, señor attorney. But it was not his voice that spoke. I think worse mischief has been done near the inn.”
“Worse mischief?”
“Truly. For when this thief heard the words he let his pistol fall and dropped the bridle of my mule. By the moon I could see his face glisten with sweat, and it looked white.”
“He was afraid, eh? He was a coward? This poor cheat of a creature could not even be a brigand?”