"Is this fellow a thief or a lover?" thought Dick; "if an affair of gallantry, it is no business of mine. Bah! what is there to steal from a Spanish posada? and to interfere with the nocturnal rambles of some loving stableboy or amatory muleteer would be rather an insane proceeding on my part."
With these reflections he resumed his place on the floor, and was about to drop asleep—for on service all curiosity becomes blunted; the value of property and the risk of death but of little consequence—when a cry pierced his ear.
A cry! it was a wild and despairing one, that rang terribly along the wooden corridor; a struggle—the stamping of feet—the explosion of a pistol, with the fall of a body heavily on the floor followed; and then all became still save the barking of the perro de caza, or house-dog, in the yard. Duff's first thought was of the enemy—that their cavalry were in the town—and that the picquets had been repulsed on the Burgos road. Then he thought of the intruder.
"Up, Grant," said he; "get your sword, Garriehorne—the French or the devil are at work here!"
"Help, senores caballeros—help!" cried a piteous voice in the corridor.
"Is that you, senor patron?"
"Si, senor—'tis I and the senora patrona—open, por amor de Dios—the posada has been attacked by thieves."
"By thieves"—
"Yes; and by the holy of holies, I have had the narrowest of escapes," he added, dragging in his young and pretty wife. Both were in their night dresses; both were breathless and ghastly pale.
"What was the meaning of that pistol-shot?"