However, they could get no hearing that night, and were shut up in what Jack called the station-house, but which was really a round Moorish tower with horseshoe arches. Here Alvar obtained a piece of paper, and they concocted a full description of themselves, their travelling companions, and their destination, which Alvar signed with his full name,—
“Alvaro Guzman Lester, of Westmoreland, England,” and directed to El Señor Don Luis Pavieco, Zahara, and this he desired might be given to the local authorities. He also tried hard, but in vain, to get a note sent to Ronda.
They hoped that the early morning might produce Don Luis, but they saw nothing of any one but the soldier who brought them their food, which was still of the poorest.
Alvar’s patience began to give way at last; he walked up and down the room.
“Oh, I am mad when I think of my brother!” he exclaimed. “My poor Cheriton. What he will suffer!”
“Don’t you think they’ll let us out soon?” said Jack, who had subsided into a sort of glum despair.
“Oh, they will wait—and delay—and linger. It drives me mad!” he repeated vehemently, and throwing himself into a seat he hid his face in his arms on the table.
“Well,” said Jack, “it’s dogged as does it. I wish I hadn’t used up all my tobacco though.”
Early the next morning their door was opened at an unusual hour, and they were summoned into a sort of hall, where they found “el Capitano,” another officer in a respectable uniform, and, to Alvar’s joy, Don Luis Pavieco himself.
The thing was ended with ludicrous ease. Don Luis bowed to Alvar, and turning to the officer declared that Don Alvar Lester was perfectly well known to him, and that the other gentleman was certainly his half-brother and an Englishman. The officer bowed also, smiled, hoped that they had not been incommoded; it was a slight mistake.