“You are––Spanish?”
Again the face of the youth flushed, and he shrugged his shoulders and replaced his velvet cap with its pert cock’s feather.
“I have more than enough Spanish blood to send me to the Christian rack or stake if they caught me worshipping the pagan gods of my grandmother,” he stated briefly, and plainly had so little hope of winning service that he was about to make his bow and depart in search of the Padre.
But the retort caught Don Ruy, and he held the lad by the shoulder and laughed.
“Of all good things the saints could send, you are the best,” he decided––“and by that swagger I’ll be safe to swear your grandsire was of the conquistadores––I thought so! Well Chico:––you are engaged for the service of secretary to Maestro Diego Maria Francisco Brancadori. You work is seven days in the week except when your protector marks a saint’s day in red ink. On that day you will have only prayers to record, on the other days you will assist at many duties concerning a wondrous account of the adventures Don Diego hopes for in the heathen land.”
“Hopes for:––your Excellency?”
“Hopes for so ardently that our comfort may rest in seeing that he meets with little of disappointment on the trail.”
For one instant the big black eyes of the lad flashed a shy appreciation of Don Ruy’s sober words and merry smile.
“For it is plain to be seen,” continued that gentleman––“that 77 if Don Diego finds nothing to make record of, your own wage will be a sad trial and expense.”
“I understand, your Excellency.”