The notary, a keen-eyed fellow, was saying quietly to his companions:
"This Señor Archibaldisto is an impostor—that is, he is a gentleman. Look at his hands; they are sunburned, but no more out of shape with work than a fine lady's. And he is an Englishman. I have been in England and I know them. He is no North American; the North Americans are Indians—black, like the Moors. Listen to his Spanish. He speaks rapidly, but incorrectly, and I know the English accent. Depend upon it, he is an English spy—probably from Gibraltar."
This was enough. A cry went up from the notary's companions, of which the crowd quickly caught the meaning, and then, like a pack of wolves, they howled:
"A spy! A spy from Gibraltar! An English spy! Garrote him! Let him be garroted!"
Archy was standing on the ground near the open door of the tent where Maria was telling fortunes. As he heard this ominous cry he turned to go into the tent, but José met him at the door. The Spaniard's face was black with hate.
"You are an English spy!" he hissed.
"I swear to you I am not—I swear before God that I am not a spy!" cried Archy.
José barred the way for a moment, but suddenly Maria, who had seemed nothing more than a beast of burden, rose and pushed him out of the way.
"Come," she said to Archy, for the crowd was now closing around them menacingly.