“Who knows whether to-morrow you will be alive,” said the curate, going on toward the reception-room.
“What? You think that youngster is going to kill me?”
“Señor alférez, the lives of all of us are in danger!”
“What?”
The curate pointed to the door, which the alférez closed in his customary fashion.
“Now, go ahead,” he said calmly.
“Did you see how I ran? When I thus forget myself, there is some grave reason.”
The curate approached him and spoke low.
“Do you—know—of nothing—new?”