“Robbers, amigo mio! who told you we were that?”
The Irishman felt abashed, seeing he had committed himself.
“Don Ruperto,” he exclaimed, hastening to make the best of his blunder, “I owe you every apology. It arose from some talk I heard passing around in the prison. Be assured, I neither did nor could believe it.”
“Thank you, Señor!” returned the Mexican. “Your apologies are appreciated. And,” he added, putting on a peculiar smile, “in a way superfluous. I believe we do enjoy that repute among our enemies; and, to confess the truth, not without some reason.”
Kearney pricked up his ears, perplexity, with just a shade of trouble, again appearing upon his face. He said nothing, however, allowing the other to proceed.
“Carramba, yes!” continued the proscript. “’Tis quite true we do a little in the plundering line—now and then. We need doing it, Don Florencio. But for that, I mightn’t have been able to set so good a breakfast before you; nor wines of such quality, nor yet these delectable cigars. If you look to the right down there, you’ll see the pueblo of San Augustin, and just outside its suburbs, a large yellow house. From that came our last supply of drinkable and smokeable materials, including those here, mahogany and everything. A forced contribution, as I’ve hinted at. But, Señor, I should be sorry to have you think we levy blackmail indiscriminately. He from whom they were taken is one of our bitterest enemies; equally an enemy of our country. ’Twas all in the way of reprisal; fair, as you’ll admit, when you come to comprehend the circumstances.”
“I comprehend them now,” returned the listener, relieved, “quite; and I trust you’ll accept my apology.”
“Sans arrière pensée,” responded the Mexican, who could speak French, if not English, “I do frankly, freely. No reproach to you for supposing us robbers. I believe many others do, among whom we make appearance. Southward, however, in the State of Oaxaca, we are better known as ‘the Free Lances’; a title not so appropriate, either, since our weapons are only at the disposal of the Republic—our lives as well.”
“But,” questioned Kearney, “may I ask why you are habited as I now see you?”
“For a good reason, amigo. It adds to our security, giving all sorts of opportunities. Throughout Mexico, the cowl of the monk is the best passport a man could be provided with. Wearing it, we go about among the mountain villages without suspicion, the people believing that this old monastery, so long abandoned as to have been forgotten, has again become the dwelling-place of a religious order. Of course we don’t allow any of the rustics to approach it. Luckily, they are not curious enough to care for that, against the toil of climbing up here. If they attempt it, we have sentinels to stay them. For ourselves, we have learned to play the part of the holy friar, so that there would be difficulty in detecting the counterfeit. As it chances, we have with us one or two who once wore the cowl. These perverts have taught us all the tricks and passwords current among the fraternity. Hitherto they have availed us, and I trust will, till the time arrives for our casting off our cassock, and putting on the soldier’s coat. That day is not distant, Don Florencio; nearer than I expected, from what my comrades have told me since we came up. The State of Oaxaca is disaffected; as, indeed, the whole southern side of Acapulco, and a grito is anticipated ere long—possibly within a month. Alvarez, who controls in that quarter, will be the man to raise it; and the old Pinto chief will expect to be joined by the ‘Free Lances.’ Nor will he be disappointed. We are all burning to be at it. So, caballero, you see how it is with us. And now,” he added, changing tone and looking his listener earnestly in the face, “I have a question to put to yourself.”