Having entered and taken seats, Don Faustino and his guest await the serving of the meal.
For some time in silence, each with an elbow rested on the table, a hand supporting his head, the fingers buried in his hair.
The silence is at length broken; the host, as it should be, speaking first.
“What had we best do, De Lara? I don’t think ’twill be safe staying here. After what’s happened, they’re sure to come after us.”
“That’s probable enough. Caspita! I’m puzzled to make out how that fellow who called out our names could have known we were there. ‘Crusaders’ he said they were; which means they were sailors belonging to the English warship. Of course the boat’s crew that was waiting. But what brought them up; and how came they to arrive there and then, just in the nick of time to spoil our plans? That’s a mystery to me.”
“To me, too.”
“There were no sailors hanging about the hotel that I saw; nor did we encounter any as we went through the streets. Besides, if we had, they couldn’t have passed us, and then come on from the opposite side, without our seeing them—dark as it was. ’Tis enough to make me believe in second-sight.”
“That appears the only way to explain it.”
“Yes; but it won’t, and don’t. I’ve been thinking of another explanation, more conformable to the laws of nature.”
“What?”