“De yez think, Raowl, she’s gone after the licker?”
“I am sure of it,” answered the Frenchman.
In a few minutes the woman returned, and, drawing a small flask out of the folds of her rebozo, handed it to Chane.
The Irishman commenced undoing the string that carried his “relics.”
“Which ov them de yez want, misthress?—the saint, or the Howly Mother, or both?—it’s all the same to Murtagh.”
The woman, observing what he was after, rushed forward, and, placing her hands upon his, said in a kind tone:
“No, Señor. Su proteccion necesita usted.”
“Phwhat diz she say, Raowl?”
“She says, keep them; you will need their protection yourself.”
“Och, be me sowl! she’s not far asthray there. I need it bad enough now, an’ a hape ov good they’re likely to do me. They’ve hung there for tin years—both of thim; and this nate little flask’s the first raal binifit I iver resaved from ayther of them. Thry it, Captin. It’ll do yez good.”