"You are not going to the French head-quarters?"
"No."
"Still monosyllables!" said the Spaniard, impetuously. "I must be plain, I find. You are a deserter!"
"I have said that I am going on duty," replied Quentin, haughtily. "You need question me no further. I am not bound to satisfy the curiosity of every wayfarer I may meet."
"Morte de Dios!" swore the Spaniard, with a scowl in his deep eye, and a hand on his stiletto.
"I, too, have arms to repress insolence," said Quentin, grasping his sword.
On this the Spaniard laughed, and said—
"Come—don't let us quarrel. You are a brave boy, and your little breakfast came to me most opportunely. Let us enjoy the present without thinking of the future. Demonio! Neither of us may be what we seem. We more often look like spits than swords in this world!"
"Senor, excuse me; but I don't understand your proverb."
"It means simply, that all men are not what they seem. To you I appear a gitano, a mendigo—it may be, a ladrone; you appear to me a deserter; so our circumstances may change—you prove the spit, and I the sword."