“No spies,” cried the contrabandista. “Our and his Majesty’s friends—wounded English soldiers who had been fighting upon our side.”
There was a burst of ejaculations; swords were sheathed, and the dethroned Spanish monarch uncocked his pistol and thrust it back into his belt.
“They have had a narrow escape,” he said bitterly. “Why were you not here with the friends you promised?”
“They are outside awaiting my orders, your Majesty,” said the smuggler bluntly. “May I remind you that you are not to your time, neither have you come by the pass I promised you to watch.”
“Bah! How could I, when I was driven by these wretched French, who are ten times our number? We had to reach the trysting-place how we could, and it was natural that these boys should be looked upon as spies. Now then, where are you going to take us? The French soldiers cannot be far behind.”
“No, sire; they are very near.”
“And your men—where are they?”
“Out yonder, sire, between you and your pursuers.”
“Then are we to continue our flight to-night?”
“I cannot tell yet, sire. Not if my men can hold the enemy at bay. It may be that they will fall back here, but I cannot say yet. I did intend to lead you through the forest and along a path I know by the mountain-side; but it is possible that the French are there before us.”