The old man’s voice sounded at her elbow, faltering, placating. “With permission, señorita, we must be starting.”
“And similarly with permission, señor, who are you?”
“Anastasio Murguía, the servant of Your Mercy.”
“Ah, the poor little crow? Perhaps you will tell me, sir, why neither the Señor Ney nor Fra–nor Captain Morel is here?”
“The young French caballero had visited the fort last evening, he replied. Her Mercy knew that? Yes, precisamente. Yes, the caballero had spent the night up there with his compatriots of the garrison. Her Mercy did not know that? No? But it was quite exact, yes, because he, Don Anastasio, had been so informed. But the Señor Ney would meet them out 58of Tampico–yes, precisamente, with a detachment of cavalry from the fort.”
“That poor Michel!” said Jacqueline. “He’s determined that I am to have a French escort. But Captain Morel, señor?”
Murguía would not answer. He repeated the question to the Mexican woman, who took up explanations with a glib readiness. “Si, niña, I saw the capitan, not more than an hour ago. He was riding by the café, to meet his–Contra Guerrillas. But he stopped and woke me. He said that I was to bring Your Mercies here to the mesón, and to say that he would meet Your Mercies–yes, surely, before you had gone very far, niña.” Her tone was a sugared whine, and more than once she peered around at Murguía; while he, for his part, stood by as though overseeing a task. But Jacqueline only allowed herself a little inconsequential sniff, and went back to the really serious business that did worry her. She demanded her trunk.
“How, the señorita does not know?” asked Murguía.
“Know what?”
“That the sailors did not come back from the ship?”