There was an air of sincerity in the declaration of the wretch that rendered it difficult to believe in his guilt—that is, the guilt of him and his companion as the real murderers, though their intention to have been so was clear enough to Cubina.
“Crambo! why did you stab him?” said he to the two prisoners. “You need not deny that you did that.”
“Señor capitan,” answered the crafty Andres, who in all delicate questions appeared to be spokesman, “we won’t deny that. It is true—I confess it with shame—that we did run our blades once or twice through the body.”
“A dozen times, you John Crow!” corrected Quaco.
“Well, Señor Quaco,” continued the Spaniard, “I won’t be particular about the number. There may have been a thrust or two less, or more. It was all a whim of my comrade, Manuel, here—a little bit of a wager between us.”
“A wager for what?” asked Herbert.
“Well, you see, master, we’d been journeying, as I’ve said already, to Savanna. We saw the horse tied outside this little rancho, and thought we would go in and see who was inside. Carrambo! what should we see but the body of a dead man lying stretched out on the bamboos! Santissima! Señores, we were as much startled as you!”
“Terribly surprised, I suppose?” sarcastically spoke Cubina.
“Nearly out of our senses, I assure you, señor.”
“Go on, you wretch!” commanded Herbert. “Let us hear what tale you have to tell.”