“Mistake!” exclaimed Jack; “and pray, Alvar, what’s the Spanish for apology—damages?”
Alvar turned a deaf ear, and bowed and smiled with equal politeness.
“He had been sure that in due time the slight mistake would be rectified. Were they now free to go?”
“Yes;” and Don Luis interposed, begging them to come and get some breakfast with him while their horses could be got ready. Their guide?—oh, he was still detained on suspicion.
“Well,” ejaculated Jack, “they are the coolest hands. Incommoded! I should think we have been incommoded indeed!”
In the meantime no hint of how matters had really gone reached the anxious hearts at Ronda. The authorities had scouted the idea of brigands, and had revealed the existence of a dangerous ravine, some short distance from the mountain path. Doubtless the darkness had overtaken them, and they had been lost. The guides declared that nothing was more unlikely, as it was hardly possible to reach the ravine from the path, the rocks were so steep. A search was however made by some of the most active, it need not be said, in vain. Cheriton, afterwards, never could bear a reference to those days and nights of suspense—suspense lasting long enough to change the hope of good tidings into the dread of evil tidings, till he feared rather than longed for the sounds for which his whole being seemed to watch.
Nothing could exceed Mr Stanforth’s kindness to him, and he held up at first bravely, and submitted to his friend’s care. On the third morning they resolved that Don Guzman should be written to, and Cherry, who had been wandering about in an access of restless misery, tried to begin the letter; but he put down the pen, turning faint and dizzy, and unable to frame a sentence.
“I cannot,” he said faintly. “I cannot see.”
“You must lie down, my dear boy; you have had no rest. I will do it.”
“My father, too,” Cheriton said, with a painful effort at self-control. “I think—there’s no chance. I must try to do it; but—oh—Jack—Jack!”