"Ay, and if they need diminishing," assented Cabrera, "the redskins are like enough to do us a favour that way when they get the chance, if the horrible air hereabouts do not do it first. Besides, poor Morla hath made restitution."
"Hath he so?" asked Montoro with a more relenting accent in his voice. "I feared that he had killed the owners of the fowls. Otherwise—I do lament his heavy punishment."
"Thou art in earnest?" said Alvarado eagerly, and stepping nearer to the last speaker, who looked hurt as well as surprised.
"Surely I am in earnest. Why canst thou doubt it, Alvarado?"
"Well," was the rather hesitating answer, "to tell truth, Diego, I thought thou hadst of late years given so much pity to our adversaries—"
"Our adversaries!" interrupted Montoro indignantly. "Callest thou these poor, simple, hospitable peoples of this New World our adversaries? That were, verily, to add mockery to our many barbarities." There was a brief, angry pause before Montoro recovered himself, and said more gently—"But there, Don Pedro, I meant not thus to break in upon thy speech. I crave pardon. Thou wouldst have said that I give too much pity to the Indians to have ought to spare for my own brethren?"
"Even so," came the blunt reply.
"And even so it is not," was the answer back. "And I will prove it, by attempting anything thou mayest suggest, for the rescue of this man Morla from his impending fate. What wouldst thou?"
"First to grasp thee by the hand for a true good comrade," was the impulsive reply. "And then—"
"Well, and then? Fear not to tell me thy will," said Montoro more warmly and cordially. "You see, I stand pledged now to help you."