But there were several things that conspired at that moment to make Diego’s defiance less objectionable than at another time it would have been. Martin Alonzo realized that he had been unjust to Diego from first to last, and had misunderstood him; he saw that he had been impolitic—though that was not much of a matter—in trying to force a confession before all the crew; he knew now that the guilt of the culprit in cutting the gear had not been as great as he had supposed at first—though a hanging matter, too; moreover, he was a bold man himself, and liked boldness in others, and particularly in Diego, whom he had supposed to be a spoiled boy with no other gift than that of talking immoderately. However, he was not going to yield at once. He frowned and said:
“You are not talking now to one of your frays.”
“I would I were,” answered Diego, quickly; “I should have some hope of justice then.”
“Tut!” said Martin Alonzo, and his brother and the steward knew by the half-smile on his face that there was no longer any danger for Diego, “that good Fray Bartolomeo told the truth when he said you had the gift of language.”
“It has been of little use to me here,” said Diego, sulkily.
“Say no more about it, say no more about it!” ejaculated Martin Alonzo, gruffly, but not unkindly.
“Yes,” said Diego, still smarting under his wrongs and disregarding the warning of Garcia Fernandez, “that is just it; you put upon me and then deny me the right to say a word in my own behalf.”
“Say no more about it, say no more about it,” reiterated Martin Alonzo, impatiently.
“Oh, I can keep silence,” answered Diego.
Martin Alonzo laughed in spite of himself at the persistence of the boy.