Rio Medio was the name of the town to which Carlos was going—which his uncle owned. They moved away from above.
What was I to believe? What could this mean? But the second mate’s, “Scoot, young man,” seemed to come to my ears like the blast of a trumpet. I became suddenly intensely anxious to find Macdonald—to see no more of Carlos.
From above came suddenly a gruff voice in Spanish. “Señor, it would be a great folly.”
Tomas Castro was descending the ladder gingerly. He was coming to fetch his bundle. I went hastily into the distance of the vast, dim cavern of spare room that served for the steerage.
“I want him very much,” Carlos said. “I like him. He would be of help to us.”
“It’s as your worship wills,” Castro said gruffly. They were both at the bottom of the ladder. “But an Englishman there would work great mischief. And this youth——”
“I will take him, Tomas,” Carlos said, laying a hand on his arm.
“Those others will think he is a spy. I know them,” Castro muttered. “They will hang him, or work some devil’s mischief. You do not know that Irish judge—the canaille, the friend of priests.”
“He is very brave. He will not fear,” Carlos said.
I came suddenly forward. “I will not go with you,” I said, before I had reached them even.