“Don Diego...” he was beginning, and then stopped, and looked curiously at Blood.
Noting the pause and the look, Esteban bounded forward, his face livid.
“Have you broken faith, you curs? Has he come to harm?” he cried—and the six Spaniards behind him grew clamorous with furious questionings.
“We do not break faith,” said Hagthorpe firmly, so firmly that he quieted them. “And in this case there was not the need. Don Diego died in his bonds before ever you reached the Encarnacion.”
Peter Blood said nothing.
“Died?” screamed Esteban. “You killed him, you mean. Of what did he die?”
Hagthorpe looked at the boy. “If I am a judge,” he said, “Don Diego died of fear.”
Don Esteban struck Hagthorpe across the face at that, and Hagthorpe would have struck back, but that Blood got between, whilst his followers seized the lad.
“Let be,” said Blood. “You provoked the boy by your insult to his father.”
“I was not concerned to insult,” said Hagthorpe, nursing his cheek. “It is what has happened. Come and look.”