There were two men there, members of the guardia civil.
“There! There he goes,” Quentin said to them, pointing toward the meadow of El Corregidor.
The two men began to run in the indicated direction. Quentin went through the bridge gate, threw the lantern and the pike to the ground, and began to run desperately. He kept hearing the whistles of the watchmen; when he saw a lantern, he slipped through some alley and fairly flew along. At last he was able to reach El Cuervo’s tavern, where he knocked frantically upon the door.
“Who is it?” came from within.
“I, Quentin. They’re chasing me.”
El Cuervo opened the door, and lifted his lantern to Quentin’s face to make sure of his identity.
“All right. Come in. Take the light.”
Quentin took the lantern, and the innkeeper slid a couple of formidable-looking bolts into place.
“Now give me the lantern, and follow me.”
El Cuervo crossed the tavern, came out into a dirty courtyard, opened a little door, and, followed by Quentin, began to climb a narrow stairway which was decorated with cobwebs. They must have reached the height of the second story when the innkeeper stopped, fastened the lantern to a beam on the wall, and holding on to some beam ends that were sticking from the wall, climbed up to a high garret.