“Would or would not,” answered Juan, ungraciously, “it concerns no one but myself.”
He had resented Diego’s injustice and had just been telling himself, with bitterness, that it was the last time he would make any effort to do a good or generous thing; and yet, when it came to it, there was in him a sudden distaste for Miguel’s kind.
He and Miguel had become acquainted in the prison, where, as the custom was, all the prisoners had been herded together. The man had conceived a fancy for the boy and had given him sympathy and encouragement, and the boy, in his loneliness, had been grateful. Miguel had little but wickedness to teach, and Juan had been so cast down and hopeless that he had listened and learned. Nevertheless, he did not yet love wickedness for its own sake, and the effect of his noble and generous impulse had been the infusion of a new and better spirit in him.
It is probable that Miguel had an undefined notion of the change that had taken place in Juan, and was so much disturbed by it that he was bent on bringing him again under his influence. Unfortunately it was a good time for an effort of that sort.
“That is true, too,” said Miguel, without showing any vexation; “but I suppose a fellow must care a little if his friend is hurt.”
It was said in such an off-hand, hearty way that Juan felt ashamed of his inclination to turn from his old friend. He began to yield in a sulky fashion.
“Who said I was hurt?” he demanded.
“As if it wasn’t made plain enough! Don’t you suppose everybody who was looking could see it? That’s what he wanted, the little priestling!”
“What do you mean?” asked Juan, quickly.