The Mexican’s sympathy grew more keen.
“But the other sins,” Driscoll added, “they’ll need water, and a great plenty, too.”
Juan Bautista was feeling the buckskin’s knees. Driscoll longed to choke him, but instead, he drove again at the wedge. “Another thing, I’ll have to leave my money behind.” He mentioned it casually, but his breath stopped while he waited for the effect. The guard straightened. Demijohn’s knees seemed to be all right. He took up the tray, and opened the door, yet without a word. Driscoll’s fist doubled, to strike and run for it. Then the fellow spoke.
“Does Y’r Mercy want soap too?”
The fist unclenched. “No,” came the reply, almost in a joyful gasp, “this is for, for godliness only.”
“One jar, señor?”
“Bless me, no! Two big ones, bigger’n a barrel.”
With a parting glance at Demijohn, the guard stole forth to gratify the heathen’s whim.
“I’ll give him enough to buy a horse,” Driscoll resolved.