“Who brought the word?”
“Ferd, the dwarf,” came the reply, as the dollar exchanged owners.
CHAPTER XIX.
ANTONIO’S CONFESSION
These were the facts: Natan had been grooming the horses, Nimrod and Buster, when suddenly and soundlessly there appeared before the window in the stables’ rear, the misshapen head and shoulders of typo Ferdinand Bernal. He was mounted on a snow-white horse and seemed to the superstitious stable boy to have risen out of the ground. Buster, also, had appeared to be frightened for a few seconds, though he speedily recovered his equine calmness and merely whinnied his delight, while he attempted to secure another mouthful of alfalfa before the bridle slipped into place over his head.
“Natan, the little captain,” whispered Ferd, through the narrow casement.
“Well, yes; the little captain,” returned the other, in a louder tone, and grinning at his own astuteness in discovering that this was a white horse so very like the “spook horse” that it might be one and the same. Some of Antonio’s schemes he had fathomed, being himself a sort of schemer in his own stupid way.
“I want her. She must come. Antonio dies.”