"You wish to know, señor?'
"Exceedingly."
"Listen. A week after these events our abogado disappeared from Jaen, and no man knew whence he had gone, and few cared. A month after, a poor wretch, half crazed and in rags, emaciated, pale and hollow-cheeked by hunger, illness, agony, and wandering, and whose vision had been destroyed by the simple application of a red-hot ramrod, was found near a village of the Sierra de Ronda. It was Jacop el Escribano—whose scribbling was at an end, and whose eyes were closed on the world for ever."
"And his son, Gil Jacop?"
"Was found shot one fine morning at the corner of that road, just where you see a rough wooden cross, erected by the curate in memory of the affair, and to beg a prayer of every passer-by for the dead man's sinful soul. The corregidor has thrice been robbed of all he possessed—his rents, fees, and the revenue of his commanderie; and the alcalde has quite as often been beaten to the very verge of death. Evil-disposed people lay those things to the charge of Don Fabrique; but I say nothing, having no opinion on the subject."
"Then you are afraid of him?" said Jack, laughing.
"Afraid—ha, ha!" said the Spaniard, taking up his long gun; "no—not so much as you were afraid of Juan Roa and Martin Secco, on that night in the 'Posada del Cavallo' at Malaga.
"How know you of that affair?" asked Jack, starting to his feet.
"Did I not hear it told at full length last night in the venta at Castellar?"
"Were you there?" I inquired, with surprise.