“Madre de Dios!” he said.
He would apparently have backed away in consternation had not Harper, who slipped between him and the door, stood with his back to it; while Appleby spoke two words softly in Castilian. They were without connection and apparently meaningless, but they carried weight with those who had any hand in the insurrection, and the landlord sat down, evidently irresolute.
“Would you ruin me? The Sin Verguenza are scattered, and Espada Morales is not far away,” he said.
“Still,” said Appleby dryly, “they are not dead, my friend, and it is only those who are buried that never come back again.”
The innkeeper nodded, for the delicacy of the hint as well as the man’s accent were thoroughly Castilian.
“Well,” he said reflectively, “here one is ruined in any case, and what one gives to the friends of liberty Morales will not get. After all, it is but a handful of beans or an omelet, and it is golden onzas those others would have from me.”
“If eggs are not too dear here we can pay,” said Appleby, with a laugh, and turned to see that Harper was glancing at him reproachfully.
It was evident that the innkeeper saw him, too, for a little smile came into his eyes. “Then it is seldom so with the Sin Verguenza,” he said. “Doubtless your companion is one of them.”
“Silver is scarce with the Sin Verguenza,” said Appleby. “Still, there are debts they pay with lead.”
The innkeeper set food before them—beans and oil, an omelet, and a bottle of thin red wine from the Canaries. He also somewhat reluctantly produced a few cigars of a most excellent tobacco; and Harper sighed with pure content when he dropped into a big raw-hide chair when the meal was over.