“But you could not run more than a league. Stay, señor, let me consult my wife. Tell me, my heart, is not Miguel stabling horses each night in the old huts near the salt-pans?”
“Who knows what Miguel does? His doings, being modernist, do not concern us, but rather stir our horror.”
“It is true, my life, that Miguel errs in mind, but not, my delight, in heart. In his heart he may be the instrument of good. Listen, señor. In less than one kilometre north-east from this are salt-pans near the beach, with huts. Run thither by this track to the right. It is likely that at this time you will find Miguel there with the horses of his occupation. He, for money if not for love, will lend you a horse and ride with you, so that he may lead it back. Say that I, Enobbio, sent you, knowing the goodness of his nature. Thus will you reach your ship in time, and in no other way can you do this.”
“You say that it is only likely that he will be there.”
“He will be there, señor,” Camilla said; “he is always there at this hour with his horses: never does he fail.”
“You may count quite certainly on his being there and on his lending you a horse,” Enobbio said. “I, who am Enobbio, will serve you as to bread and lodging for a year, without reward, should he not be there.”
“He will lend assuredly,” Camilla said, “to any señor such as the señor whose need is as the señor’s.”
Sard felt in her speech the insincerity of one anxious to be rid of him: he made up his mind at once.
“Can I reach the seashore by this path to the right?”
“Assuredly, señor. Miguel and the salt-pans are on the seashore.”