CHAPTER X
Having dined off some very greasy dishes served up with cassava or lentils, and seasoned with hot peppers in the Brazilian fashion, Carew and the mate lit their pipes, and the one-eyed negro brought them cups of black coffee and glasses of white native rum. The table at which they sat was at some distance from any other, so all risk of their conversation being overheard was obviated.
"All these men are thieves, you say?" said Carew, looking round at the strange assembly, on whose faces the Venetian lanterns cast a ruddy glow.
"Yes, thieves and murderers, all of them," replied the mate, "but well-behaved, quiet folk, as you see. One is safer here than in some of the flash cafés in the main streets of Rio."
"They carry their characters on their faces. I only see one in the whole crowd whom I would not instinctively distrust. Who is that tall, handsome old man with the long white hair and beard?"
"That is our worthy host," said Baptiste. "He looks like a mild, mediæval saint, but there is much blood on his hands. I must introduce him to you, for he is a celebrated character in his way."
Baptiste caught the old man's eye, and beckoned to him to approach the table.
"Good-evening to you, Father Luigi. I think you understand French?"
The old man nodded an assent.