“Because we shall stand some chance for our lives. Cenobio is a noble fellow.”
“You know him, then?”
“Yes, Captain; I have helped him a little in the contraband trade.”
“A smuggler, is he?”
“Why, in this country it is hardly fair to call it by so harsh a name, as the Government itself dips out of the same dish. Smuggling here, as in most other countries, should be looked upon rather as the offspring of necessity and maladministration than as a vice in itself. Cenobio is a contrabandisto, and upon a large scale.”
“And you are a political philosopher, Raoul!”
“Bah! Captain; it would be bad if I could not defend my own calling,” replied my comrade, with a laugh.
“You think, then, that we are in the hands of Cenobio’s men.”
“I am sure of it, Captain. Sacre! had it been Jarauta’s band, we would have been in heaven—that is, our souls—and our bodies would now be embellishing some of the trees upon Don Cosmé’s plantation. Heaven protect us from Jarauta! The robber-priest gives but short shrift to any of his enemies; but if he could lay his hands on your humble servant, you would see hanging done in double-quick time.”
“Why think you we are with Cenobio’s guerilla?”