“Be the powers, Rowl! though ye be only jokin’, I’ve a good mind to thry his holiness upon thim. I’ve got both him and the mother undher me jacket, av I could only rache thim.”
“Good!” cried the other. “Do!”
“It’s aisy for ye to say ‘Do’, when I can’t budge so much as my little finger.”
“Never mind. I’ll arrange that,” answered Raoul. “Hola, Señor!” shouted he to one of the guerilleros.
“Quien?” (Who?) said the man, approaching.
“Usted su mismo,” (Yourself), replied Raoul.
“Que cosa?” (What is it?)
“This gentleman,” said Raoul, still speaking in Spanish, and nodding towards Chane, “has a pocket full of money.”
A hint upon that head was sufficient; and the guerilleros, who, strangely enough, seemed to have overlooked this part of their duty, immediately commenced rifling our pockets, ripping them open with their long knives. They were not a great deal the richer for their pains, our joint purse yielding about twenty dollars. Upon Chane there was no money found; and the man whom Raoul had deceived repaid the latter by a curse and a couple of kicks.
The saint, however, turned up, attached to the Irishman’s neck by a leathern string; and along with him a small crucifix, and a pewter image of the Virgin Mary.