“Wal, Cap; what’s up now?” he asked on rejoining them.
“They’re no robbers, Cris,” said Kearney, speaking freely in their own tongue.
“Gled to hear it. I didn’t think they war—noways. Nor monks neyther, I guess?”
“Nor monks.”
“What then, Cap?”
“The same as yourself. Patriots who have been fighting for their country, and got defeated. That’s why they are here—in hiding.”
“Yes, Cap; I see it all, clar as coon’s track on a mud bar. Enemies o’ ole Santy, who’ve got beat it thar last risin’.”
“Just so. But they expect another rising soon, and wish us to join them. I’ve agreed, and said so. What say you?”
“Lordy, Cap; what a questun to be axed, an’ by yurself! Sure this chile air boun’ to stick to ye, whatsomever ye do. Ef they’d been brigants, I shed ’a put my conscience in my pocket, and goe’d in wi’ ’em all the same; s’long you’re agreed. Nor I wudn’t ’a minded turning monk for a spell. But men who intend foughtin’ for freedom? Haleluyah! Cris Rock air all thar! Ye may tell him so.”
“He consents,” said Kearney, reporting to the Mexican; “and willingly as myself. Indeed, Don Ruperto, we ought both to regard it as a grace—an honour—to be so associated, and we shall do the best we can to show ourselves worthy of it.”