‘That is true, my friend,’ said the General, hastening to cover the priest’s little lapse of good manners, ‘and from these gentlemen—honest enough in their way, no doubt—you have learnt—?’
‘That the Señor Conyngham has enemies in Spain.’
‘So I understand; but he has also friends?’
‘He has one,’ said Vara, taking up a fine, picturesque attitude, with his right hand at his waist where the deadly knife was concealed in the rolls of his faja.
‘Then he is fortunate,’ said the General, with his most winning smile; ‘why do you come to me, my friend.’
‘I require two men,’ answered Concepçion airily, ‘that is all.’
‘Ah! What sort of men. Guardias Civiles?’
‘The Holy Saints forbid! Honest soldiers, if it please your Excellency. The Guardia Civil! See you, Excellency.’
He paused, shaking his outspread hand from side to side, palm downwards, fingers apart, as if describing a low level of humanity.
‘A brutal set of men,’ he continued; ‘with the finger ever on the trigger and the rifle ever loaded. Pam! and a life is taken—many of my friends—at least, many persons I have met—in the café!’