"Yet I know that you have in your pouch the pay of St. Anthony of Lisbon, whom rogues and fools style of Padua—what the devil should he have to do with Padua?—in your left breast pocket, all in fair round moidores of gold—eh, señor?"
"Very true, pastor," said I, slipping a finger into my near holster, and keeping my horse well in hand and beyond the reach of his cajado; "but how came you to know me?"
"I know every officer and soldier in the regiment of Lagos as well as if I had made them—and you especially, Señor Major."
"Well—and about the moidores," said I, uneasily; "you know of them, and what then?"
"Merely this, Señor Don Joaquim; that if you would arrive at Barbacena to-morrow with the pay of the patron of the regiment of Lagos——"
"In the kingdom of Algarve," suggested Jack Slingsby.
"Si, señor; and would hand it over safe and sound to the reverend chaplain," continued the old man, in a manner so impressive that a chill came over me, the more so as I saw his sunken eyes shining in the dim moonlight like two bits of green glass; "you will beware, my son and comrade, how you taste the wine of Xeres to-night."
"The wine of Xeres, father pastor," said I, with a loud laugh; "Heaven forgive you for the tempting thought; I am not likely to taste aught to-night but the chilling dew; yet if a good cup of Xeres did come my way——"
"Avoid it as you would poison, or by the soul of St. Anthony you will repent it."
At that name I raised my hand to my cap in salute, like a good soldier of the regiment of Lagos; while waving his hand authoritatively, the old man hobbled up the slope of the mountain pass and disappeared. As he did so I heard the tinkle of a bell, and for the first time perceived a little pig trotting by his side as he vanished in the shadow of the mountain and its moonlit rocks.