Padre Ricardo, however, was in excellent sympathetic spirits, eating and drinking like a glutton of all within his reach, and turning his full eyes at times, as if to a deity, upon his friend the captain. Once he spoke––
“But, my son, you were talking of leaving this quiet retreat, where we have passed so many happy hours.”
“Yes, friend of my soul! Those fellows with commissions, and pennants at their mast-heads, and guns, and what not, seem determined to do us a mischief.” The devout padre crossed himself, and pressed the crucifix to his greasy lips. “Ay! they would no doubt arraign us before some one of their legal tribunals. Put us in prison, perhaps; or maybe give us a slight squeeze in a rope or iron collar!”
The padre groaned audibly, and dropped the wing of a teal he was gnawing, forgetting, strange as it may seem, to cross himself.
“Hola, mi padre! cheer up! We are worth a million of dead men yet. The world is wide, the sea open, and with a stout plank under our feet and one of these fellows”––here he balanced a long carving-knife, dripping with blood-red gravy, in his hand––“in our belts, who can stop us?”
There was the cold, ferocious-eyed gleam of a dying shark in the speaker’s eyes as he went on with his carving; but the priest gave a jerk of trepidation with his chin, and appeared anxious to hear more.
“Don Ignaçio, try a bit of this roast guana; it’s quite white and tender. No? Babette, give me some of that rabbit stew!” The one-eyed individual was likewise helped to some of that savory ragoût, and proceeded to pick the bones with much care and deliberation.
“Still triste, my padre! Come, come, this will never do. Join 89 me in a bumper of this generous old Port. Bueno! may we attain the same age! By the way, where did this rich stuff come from?” holding up the decanter between the light and his face as he spoke.
Don Ignaçio’s glittering optic pierced clear through the light ruby medium of the wine, cut-glass decanter and all, as he furtively watched his host, and was prepared to dodge in case the heavy vessel should slip out of the captain’s hand. Such things had happened, and might again; besides, a hard flint substance with a multitude of sharp projections, two or three inches thick and five or six pounds in weight, falling from a height on a man’s head, might kill him. The Don thought of all this, and twitched something up his sleeve with his hand under the table. But Captain Brand, it seemed, had no intention of smashing his elegant dinner set of glass, and putting down the decanter and raising a finger to his forehead, he said, “How did that wine come into my possession?”
“Somebody gave it to you, perhaps. Quien sabe? (Who knows?)” suggested Don Ignaçio.