"To three hundred each?"
The captain's conscience was not clear of past pilferings from the noble purse. This the Viscount knew; for he would never have dared to depend on his face-reading powers alone. Yet in spite of the absence of witnesses, he was taking a certain risk, and he awaited the captain's answer nervously. It came without much delay:
"I draw the line somewhere," said the captain. "I don't rob churches. Besides," he added in a contemptuous outburst, "I believe in honor, even among thieves. I'm not a fool. The stuff is worth five thousand pounds if it's worth a penny."
The Viscount fidgeted about miserably, crumbling up bread. "Not five," he whined. "Say two thousand seven hundred. Or three at the outside. Now we'll suppose—"
"Senhor Visconde de Ponte Quebrada, we will suppose nothing," retorted the captain, getting up in disgust. "I don't know what you are yourself: but damn it all, I'm a Christian. Will you sign that inventory ... or shall I? And what is your answer on your honor—if you've got any—to the Abbot?"
The Viscount climbed off his chair and struck an attitude.
"You are armed to the teeth, while I am defenseless," he said grandly, "but I will not brook these insults. Have a care."
The captain laughed a scornful laugh.
"We'll see who laughs last," squeaked the Viscount, stamping up to the soldier and shaking both his fists. "We'll see who laughs in Lisbon. What about José? What about Liberal niggers? Who is it that protects traitors? Pah! You're a Jesuit in sheep's clothing; you're a Miguelista spy; you're a—"
The captain's long-pent rage brimmed over and burst forth like a tide of molten lava. He seized the Viscount's velvet collar as if it had been the scruff of a cat and rammed him down upon the nearest chair, hissing: