“You shall. But first fill me out another capita of the Catalan. That affair has made me thirsty as a sponge.”
The adjutant, acting as Ganymede, pours out the liquor and hands the cup to his colonel, which the latter quaffs off. Then, lighting a fresh cigar, he proceeds with the promised explanation.
“I spoke of events, incidents, and coincidences—didn’t I, ayadante?”
“You did, Colonel.”
“Well, suppose I clump them altogether, and give you the story in a simple narrative—a monologue? I know, friend Roblez, you’re not a man greatly given to speech; so it will save you the necessity of opening your lips till I’ve got through.”
Roblez, usually taciturn, nods assent.
“Before coming out here,” continues the Colonel, “I’d taken some steps. When you’ve heard what they are I fancy you’ll give me credit for strategy, or cunning, if you prefer so calling it. I told you I should take no prisoners back, and that Don Valerian and the doctor are to die. They will go to their graves without causing scandal to any of us. To avoid it I’ve engaged an executioner, who will do the job without any direct orders from me.”
“Who?” asks the adjutant, forgetting his promise to be silent.
“Don’t interrupt!”
The subordinate resumes silence.