The cochero it was, José, though they knew not his name, nor anything more of him than what they had learned in that note of the Condesa’s, saying that he could be trusted, and their brief association with him afterwards—which gave them proof that he could.
As he presented himself inside the room he seemed panting for breath, and really was. He had only just arrived up the steep climb, and exchanged hardly half a dozen words with the major-domo, who had met him at the outside entrance.
Announced as a messenger, neither the Captain of the Free Lances nor Florence Kearney needed telling who sent him. A sweet intuition told them that. Rivas but asked—
“How have you found the way up here?”
“Por Dios! Señor, I’ve been here before—many’s the time. I was born among these mountains—am well acquainted with all the paths everywhere around.”
“But the sentry below. How did you get past him? You haven’t the countersign!”
“He wouldn’t have heard it if I had, Señor. Pobre! he’ll never hear countersign again—nor anything else.”
“Why? Explain yourself!”
“Esta muerto! He lies at the bottom of the cliff, his body crushed—”
“Who has done it? Who’s betrayed us?” interrupted a volley of voices.