"The señores will understand that they are our prisoners?" said one.
"Who the deuce are you—comrades of Don Fabrique, I suppose?"
"Heaven forbid! we are honest men—alguazils of Arcos, and the Caballeros must both come before the señor alcalde."
"For what purpose?" I demanded hastily.
"The señor will soon be informed," said one.
"To his cost, perhaps," added a second.
"Vaya, come along," growled a third, "or it may be the worse for you."
Finding expostulation vain, I roused Jack, who after revolving in his own mind whether or not he ought to revolve them—for his pistol had six barrels, we took our horses by their bridles, and accompanied the bravo-like alguazils, whose good-will we sought to cultivate by being liberal with our cases of cheroots.
The alcalde, a bustling little manufacturer of Cordovan leather, received us in his office, stuck his barnacles on his nose, summoned his escribano, and opened the case with an air of awful pomp and chilling consequence; but he seemed to be about as well qualified for the office of lawgiver as Mr. Justice Shallow.
"The señores, who seemed to be British officers belonging to the garrison of Gibraltar, of which her Most Catholic Majesty Donna Isabella is sovereign, whatever Queen Victoria may assert to the contrary, were found making a sketch—a military sketch, no doubt—of her ancient city of Arcos, in the province of Andalusia; and the señores, of course, knew the law framed by the Cortes on that point."