‘Put a knife into that son of a mule who prays upon the box there,’ said Concepçion judicially. ‘This is no time for prayer. Just where the neck joins the shoulder—that is a good place.’
And a sudden silence reigned upon the box.
‘Pull the carriage to the bank,’ commanded Concepçion. ‘There is no need for the English Excellency to wet his feet. He might catch a cold.’
They all made their way to the bank, where, in the dim moonlight, one man sat nursing his shoulder while another lay, at length, quite still, upon the pebbles.
The young soldier laid a second victim to the same deadly trick beside him, while Concepçion patted his foe kindly on the back.
‘It is well,’ he said, ‘you have swallowed water. You will be sick, and then you will be well. But if you move from that spot I will let the water out another way.’
And, laughing pleasantly at this delicate display of humour, he turned to help Conyngham, who was clambering out of the carriage window.
‘Whom have you with you?’ asked Conyngham.
‘Two honest soldiers of General Vincente’s division. You see, señor, you have good friends.’
‘Yes, I see that.’