‘The guide, Antonio something-or-other, died, as I understand.’
‘Well, yes; if you choose to put it that way,’ admitted Conyngham.
The General raised his eyebrows in a gentle grimace expressive of deprecation, with, as it were, a small solution of sympathy, indicated by a moisture of the eye, for the family of Antonio something-or-other in their bereavement.
‘And the other man? Seemed a nice enough fellow . . .’ inquired Conyngham.
The General raised one gloved hand as if to fend off some approaching calamity.
‘He died this morning—at six o’clock.’
Conyngham looked down at this gentle soldier with a dawning light of comprehension. This might after all be the General Vincente whom he had been led to look upon as the fiercest of the Spanish Queen’s adherents.
‘Of the same complaint?’
‘Of the same complaint,’ answered the General softly. He slipped his hand within Conyngham’s arm, and thus affectionately led him across the patio towards the doorway where sentinels stood at attention. He acknowledged the attitude of his subordinates by a friendly nod; indeed, this rosy-faced warrior seemed to brim over with the milk of human kindness.
‘The English,’ he said, pressing his companion’s arm, ‘have been too useful to us for me to allow one of them to remain a moment longer in confinement. You say you were comfortable. I hope they gave you a clean towel and all that.’