“I left it at—at—the posada,” he replies, stammering and turning pale. “Don Mauricio had gone out.”
“A lie, lepero! You gave it to Don Miguel Diaz. No denial, sir! I’ve seen it since.”
“O Señora, pardon! pardon! I am not guilty—indeed I am not.”
“Stupid, you should have told your story better. You have committed yourself. How much did Don Miguel pay you for your treason?”
“As I live, lady, it was not treason. He—he—forced it from me—by threats—blows. I—I—was not paid.”
“You shall be, then! I discharge you from my service; and for wages take that, and that, and that—”
For at least ten times are the words repeated—the riding whip at each repetition descending upon the shoulders of the dishonest messenger.
He essays to escape by running off. In vain. He is brought up again by the dread of being ridden over, and trampled under the hoofs of the excited horse.
Not till the blue wheals appear upon his brown skin, does the chastisement cease.
“Now, sirrah; from my sight! and let me see you no more. Al monte! al monte!”