“Another ounce, less a quarter, señor,” said the notary. “I have here two hundred and four ounces and a quarter.”
“Fortunatus’s purse wants aiding, Uncle,” I said, unwilling to exhibit more of the golden spoil. “You can manage the three-quarters of an ounce?”
My uncle was speechless; but he rushed to a secretary, took out a little canvas bag, and counted out the difference in coin. When, coolly drawing out bags of his own, the notary made up a neat package of the bars, inclosing therewith his account of the weights, tied it up, lit—with apparatus of his own—a wax taper, sealed the package, and handed it to Garcia, who took it with a fierce scowl, but only to dash it down the next instant upon the table.
“I will not take it,” he exclaimed. “It is a trick—the gold is base!”
“Señor Don Pablo Garcia, I have—I, S. Xeres—have examined and proved that gold,” said the old notary. “I say it is pure, and you cannot refuse it. Señor Landell, there are your bonds now. Señor Garcia is angry, but the business is terminated.”
Rising and bowing to us with a courtly grace that could win nothing less than respect, the old notary handed some deeds to my uncle, and then, picking up the gold, he passed his arm through Garcia’s and led him away—the notary’s attendant following with his master’s writing-case and balances.
But the next moment a shadow darkened the door, and Garcia would have rushed in had not Tom blocked the way.
“Now, then, where are you shovin’ to, eh?” grumbled Tom; and there was a scuffle, and the muttering of a score of Spanish oaths, with, I must say, a couple of English ones, that sounded to be in Tom’s voice, when Garcia shouted, in a voice that we could all hear:
“Tell him there is another debt to pay yet, and it shall be paid in another coin!”
The door closed then, and it was evident that Tom was enjoying the act of seeing Garcia off the premises, while the next minute my uncle was holding me tightly by both hands and my aunt sobbing on my neck.