He walked right in rapidly, and, getting round to the other side of the table, drew a small pistol out of his breeches pocket.
“You see—I am not trusting too much to your English generosity.”
He laid the pistol negligently on the table. I had turned about on my heels. As we stood, by lunging between the two candlesticks, I should have been able to run him through the body before he could cry out.
I laid the sword on the table.
“Would you trust a damned Irish rebel?” he asked.
“You are wrong in your surmise. I would have nothing to do with a rebel, even in my thoughts and suppositions. I think that the Intendente of Don Balthasar Riego would look twice before murdering in a bedroom the guest of the house—a relation, a friend of the family.”
“That’s sensible,” he said, with that unalterable air of good nature, which sometimes was like the most cruel mockery of humour. “And do you think that even a relation of the Riegos would escape the scaffold for killing Don Patricio O’Brien, one of the Royal Judges of the Marine Court, member of the Council, Procurator to the Chapter....”
“Intendente of the Casa,” I threw in.
“That’s my gratitude,” he said gravely. “So you see....”
“Supreme chief of thieves and picaroons,” I suggested again.