“True, it does, señor, and the room ordered for you has already the water and a clean shirt on the pillow. Clodomiro, go you for a bandage, and fetch wine to take dust out of the throat! This way, señor,––and may you be at home in your own house!”
Unsuspecting, the amorous Marto followed the old man into the room prepared. He grunted contemptuous satisfaction at evidences of comfort extending to lace curtains hanging white and full over the one window.
“It is the time for a shirt of such cleanness,” he observed, with a grin. “Jesusita! but the sleeve sticks to me! Cut it off, and be quick to make me over into a bridegroom.”
The old man did as he was bidden, and when Clodomiro brought in a woven tray covered with a napkin from which a bottle of wine was discernible, Marto grinned at him.
“It is a soft nest you found for me, boy,” he said appreciatively, “and when I am capitan I will make you lieutenant.”
“Thanks to you, señor, and hasten the day!”
Clodomiro assisted his grandfather, and stood aside at the door respectfully as the old man passed out with his primitive supply of salves and antiseptics, and only when all need of caution was ended the boy smiled at the would-be Lothario, and the smile held a subtle mockery as he murmured, “The saints send you a good night’s sleep, señor, and a waking to health––and clearer sight!”
“Hell and its blazes to you! why do you grin?” demanded the other setting down the bottle from which he had taken a long and grateful drink, but quick as a cat the boy pulled the door shut, and slipped the bolt on the outside, and laughed aloud.
“Not this night will you be bridegroom for another man’s wife, señor!” he called. “Also it is better that you put curb on your curses,––for the lady has a mind for a quiet night of sleep.”
Marto rushed to the curtained window only to find iron bars and the glint of a gun barrel. Isidro held the gun, and admonished the storming captive with the gentle fatalism of the Indian.