“Good! that is it. Come, your arm. That cursed pain is in my legs now. The rheumatism in my knee joints, you know.”
In a few minutes more the men were at the end of the passage, and holding up the lamp, Ventura saw that a massive wooden door, thickly studded with iron nails, and secured by a huge lock and two bolts, had been set into the solid rock. It was a good piece of work, and appeared strong enough to resist any thing short of artillery.
“Here we are at last, and, thank the Virgin, that pain has left me,” muttered Andrez, as he dropped to the floor, and began to remove the stopper of the flask. “Come, friend, let us drink and be merry.”
“Stop, ’nor Andrez; how do you open the door?” asked Garote.
“With the key, of course,” and he cut short his speech by introducing the mouth of the flask into his own, while the wine gurgled merrily down his throat.
“But where is it? If you have forgotten it, we must find it, or else the padre will find us out, after all,” added his comrade, a little anxiously.
“Here, see; I carry it in my bosom,” said Andrez, as he pulled it forth, attached to a cord that hung around his neck.
“Is it the right one, do you think?” and as he spoke Garote adroitly cut the string, and placing the key in the lock, turned the bolt with some effort.
“Hold, hold, ’nor Garote! I must let no one touch that but myself. Hand it here, or, by the blessed Virgin, I will blow your brains out!” shouted Andrez, as he grasped the pistol at his belt.
“There—see, here it is. And now let us drink. Hold, will you not leave me a drop?” as the now satisfied Jarocho again elevated the flask, and at the same time lowered the liquor.