“Ay! Ay!” groaned a voice. “He hit me on the hip. Ay!”
“You’ll either go on, or I’ll knock your brains out,” said the gipsy’s voice.
“But why don’t you take off this handkerchief?” vociferated Quentin.
“In a minute.”
Quentin went on stumblingly, and they made several turns. He was not sufficiently acquainted with the streets near El Potro to get his bearings as he went along. After a quarter of an hour had elapsed, the gipsies stopped and made Quentin enter the door of a house.
“Here’s your man,” said the voice of the gipsy.
“Good,” said a vigorous and haughty voice. “Turn him loose.”
“He wounded Mochuelo bad,” added the gipsy.
“Was he armed?”
“No, but he gave him a kick that smashed him.”