“When I say smuggler,” replied Pepé, chuckling at his own perspicuity, “it is only meant as a compliment, for you haven’t an ounce of merchandise in your boat, unless indeed,” continued he, pointing with his foot to a rope ladder, rolled up, and lying in the bottom, “unless that may be a sample! Santa Virgen! a strange sample that!”
Face to face with the unknown, the coast-guard could now examine him at his leisure.
He was a young man of about Pepé’s own age, twenty-five. His complexion had the hale tint of one who followed the sea for a profession. Thick dark eyebrows were strongly delineated against a forehead bony and broad, and from a pair of large black eyes shone a sombre fire that denoted a man of implacable passions. His arched mouth was expressive of high disdain; and the wrinkles upon his cheeks, strongly marked notwithstanding his youth, at the slightest movement, gave to his countenance an expression of arrogance and scorn. In his eyes—in his whole bearing—you could read that ambition or vengeance were the ruling passions of his soul. His fine black curling hair alone tempered the expression of severity that distinguished his physiognomy. With regard to his costume, it was simply that of an officer of the Spanish navy.
A look that would have frightened most men told the impatience with which he endured the examination of the coast-guard.
“An end to this pleasantry!” he cried out, at length. “What do you want, fellow? Speak!”
“Ah! talk of our affairs,” answered Pepé, “that is just what I desire. Well, in the first place, when those two fellows of yours return with my cloak and lantern—which they are cunning enough to make a seizure of—you will give them your commands to keep at a distance. In this way we can talk without being interrupted. Otherwise, with a single shot of this carbine, which will stretch you out dead, I shall also give the alarm. What say you? Nothing? Be it so. That answer will do for want of a better. I go on. You have given to my captain forty onzas?” continued the carabinier, with a bold guess, making sure that he named enough.
“Twenty,” replied the stranger, without reflecting.
“I would rather it had been forty,” said Pepé. “Well, one does not pay so high for the mere pleasure of a sentimental promenade along the shore of the Ensenada. My intervention need be no obstruction to it—provided you pay for my neutrality.”
“How?” asked the unknown, evidently desirous of putting an end to the scene.
“Oh, a mere bagatelle—you have given the captain forty onzas.”