"I don't mind standing by 'em, master, if you're minded to let me take the responsibility of this business on my own shoulders. I warrant there's not a soul alive in England who remembers me, or would care to see me again."
"And what would become of you, my poor fellow?" says I, touched by the sadness of his speech. "Do you think you could hold the town against the Portugals?"
"No," says he; "but I wager I'd thin down the rascals before they took it from me."
"Come," says I, "let us think of something else, for you must know this can never be."
So I turned my thoughts to the Baraquan, and gloomy enough they were, so that I had not a word to say; but Matthew, though his hopes were dashed, still revolved the Ingas and their design in his mind, as it appeared, for presently, breaking silence, he says:
"I had no notion these Ingas were such a fine set of fellows, which only proves once again that we should never judge of a flock of sheep by the ewes in the pen."
"Why," says I, "did you not find your wives amiable and kind?"
"Ay," says he; "but what does a man want of such trumpery as amiability and kindness?" (As I have tried to show, he was himself remarkable for these qualities.) "Can you tell me anything about these Ingas, master, for I am no schollard?"
"Nor I neither, Matthew," says I. "I know no more of these people than what I have learnt from you and my own limited observation."
"You know enough to perceive they are better than the common ruck of mankind, I warrant," says he, "for they have the bearing and proud carriage of a noble race not used to base practices. For my own part I feel I could trust 'em with my life—as long as they learn nothing to my discredit."