"Who then art thou?" demanded Gomez Arias.
"Surely a Moor—a worthless Moor!" bitterly returned the renegade; for it was no other that now addressed Don Lope;—nor did he feel apprehensive of discovery, altered as he was by the conflict of his passions, continual sufferings, and even by the dress which he had adopted to baffle the penetration of Gomez Arias.
"Whoever I may be," continued the renegade, "is of no consequence; I come to render you service—are you disposed to accept it?"
"I cannot," firmly replied Don Lope, "from an utter stranger, without previously knowing the motives by which he is actuated."
"What!" exclaimed Bermudo, affecting surprise, "cannot you guess my motives? Certainly, I do not pretend to deny that by assisting you now, I chiefly mean to serve myself. You surely cannot expect more from a perfect stranger, as you call me. Look at me, Christian!" he added, stifling the conflict which was working in his bosom at the very sight of his foe; "behold, I am a Moor—a miserable Moor. And what else but interest could prompt a destitute, a desperate man to proffer his services to the proud and rich ones of the land?—Love, or esteem, or gratitude, think you? No, never! My own interest I consult—consult yours, and decide."
"Interest!" cried Gomez Arias; "there is something reassuring in that word. I like to hear a man talk of his interest, for then I am tempted to believe in his sincerity. What, then, canst thou do for thy interest, Moor? Let us hear in what manner thou art able to serve me."
"I can do much," replied the renegade: "You, Don Lope Gomez Arias, are at present involved in a most distressing predicament?"
"I am."
"And the source of your disquietude is a woman?"
"Proceed."