Fellowes turned to Pedro. “Is this man—is he a little mad?”
“O no, señor. He is only afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Of a closed door, señor. He is not mad. He was there, beyond Cienaga. Wait. I will speak for you.”
He leaned forward and spoke loudly, a fat hand on either knee. “This caballero wishes to ask if you were in the fight beyond Cienaga.”
The echoes of the deep voice rolled in little thunders; each echo died before the man answered in his sharp, breathless voice.
“Yes, I was there.”
“He wishes to hear about the battle. Will you tell him all you know?”
Another silence. Then,—“Yes, I will tell him all I know. But do not shut the doors.”
Fellowes took it up eagerly in his best Spanish. “Tell me all you know, my friend, and I’ll make it well worth your while.” He felt in his pocket for a pencil and a scrap of paper. “Go on. I’m ready.”