“I don’t understand a word of what they are saying,” said the Swiss with a smile.
“Nor do they understand each other,” remarked Quentin.
“That’s their way of talking,” said the poet.
“And who are those fellows?” asked Springer.
“El Sardino is an itinerant pedlar,” replied Cornejo. “He makes sling-shots for the children out of branches of rose-bay, and whistles out of maiden-hair ferns; the kind that have little seeds in them to make them trill. El Manano is a charcoal-burner.”
“Of whom were they speaking?”
“Probably of Pacheco.”
“The bandit?” asked Springer.
Cornejo fell silent; glanced at Quentin, and then, swallowing, murmured:
“Don’t say it so loud; he has many friends here.”