"I am in no doubt whatever," responded José. "Either the fellow was too sharp for us, or we made our venture at an unlucky time. If there was nothing wrong, why did he ride off so quickly?"
"Well," said I, laughing, "the click of a pistol in one's ears is not much of an inducement to stay. I think he acted very wisely."
"If all were square and aboveboard, he would have shouted for help."
"And drawn more attention to himself! That would have been foolish in any case. No, no, José; the case is clear, I think. We have misjudged Montilla, and though I don't admire his methods, it is evident he is working on our side. Let us be just, at least."
"I wish it were possible," muttered José, leaving me to conjecture what his words exactly meant.
Strangely enough, my distrust of Don Felipe was as strong as ever next day. The incident of the spy should have removed any lingering doubt as to his fidelity, but it did not. Perhaps it was owing to José's influence, but whatever the cause, I still found myself speculating keenly on our neighbour's honesty.
Now, mind you, I do not wish to be praised or blamed on false grounds. What I did afterwards may have been right or wrong—and much, perhaps, can be said on both sides—but it was not done through either love or hatred of Don Felipe. True, the man was no friend of mine, but his daughter was, and I could not bear to think of her suffering through his misdeeds.
On the very day that the troops for the south embarked, I met her quite by accident. She had been for a gallop, and was returning home. Her cheeks were flushed with the exercise, her eyes were bright and sparkling; I had never seen her look so beautiful.
"Well, Juan," she cried saucily, "so you have sent away your band of ragamuffins? I wonder how many of this lot will come back! Upon my word, I feel half inclined to pity them."
This, of course, she said to tease me; because, if our men lacked something in discipline, they were at least a match for the Spaniards in bravery.