“Ah, that is delicious!” murmured the drunkard, as he relinquished the bottle and wiped his mouth upon his shirt sleeve. “I wish that the curs—holy Mother, pardon me, I mean blessed padre Gayferos would send us upon this mission every night! Don’t you conpairano?”
“That I do! I would not have missed this chance for a thousand pesos,” warmly returned the new member, as he handed the bottle to Andrez.
“If he send the wine, yes; if not, no.”
This time Ventura did not reprove his comrade for his gluttony, but allowed him to drink as freely and often as he pleased. After a few attempts, ending by missing his mouth, and pouring the remainder of the liquor down the outside of his throat, Andrez dropped the flask, and laying his head upon it for a pillow, closed his eyes. When the loud music that streamed from his nostrils told that he slept the heavy sleep of the drunkard, Ventura picked up the light, and with a steadiness that would have astonished his comrade, had he seen the movement, opened the door and entered the little cell.
Holding the lamp above his head, so as to cast its light around him, Garote soon perceived the form of a man crouching in one corner of the room, his eyes glaring wildly at the intruder, as if in mortal dread.
“Santissima Virgin! can this be he, once so proud and handsome!” murmured Ventura, as he scanned the wretched-looking object before him.
The prisoner started in wonder, partly at the face of a stranger, but more from hearing the voice of kindness and commiseration, when he expected curses and revilings, perhaps blows.
“Who are you?” he faltered, as he shielded his eyes from the glare of the lamp.
“A friend, and if you are he whom I think, a rescuer,” returned Ventura.