The smuggler was silent for a few moments, busily tightening a bandage round his arm.
“One moment, sir,” he said. “Would you mind tying this?”
“A wound!” said the officer, starting.
“Yes, and it bleeds more freely than I could wish, for I want every drop of blood to spend in his Majesty’s service.”
The officer sheathed his sword quickly, bent forward, and, in spite of the darkness, carefully tightened the bandage.
“I beg your pardon, Señor el Contrabandista. I trust you more than ever,” he said. “But we are beaten, are we not?”
“Thanks, señor.—Beaten? No! When my fellows have finished their bread and wine they will be more full of fight than ever. We smugglers have plenty of the fox in our nature, and we should not treasure up our rich contraband stores in a cave that has not two holes.”
“Ha! You put life into me,” cried the officer.
“I wish to,” said the smuggler. “Tell his Majesty that in a short time he will see the Frenchmen coming on lighting their way with torches, and that he and his followers will show a good front; but do as we do—keep on retreating farther and farther through the black passages of this old copper-mine.”
“But retreating?” said the officer.