"Pshaw!" returned the jailer, gruffly; "pray me no such prayers: keep them for yourself. I ask you, if it be your purpose to starve yourself to death, out of a mere unsoldierly fear of hanging?"
"Thou hast not said so much to me, I know not when," replied the youth, not with any intention of shuffling off the question, but speaking of what was uppermost in his mind. His voice was very mild, and Najara, by no means without his weaker points, felt it as a reproach.
"I care not," he replied, "if I answer you any two or three questions, that may be nearest to your heart. But first give me to know, wherefore you have eaten nothing? Are you sick?"
"Surely I am, at heart; but, bodily, I am well."
"And you are not resolute to die of hunger, before the judgment-day?—Pho, if you have that spirit, perhaps it were better. But it is a death of great torment.—Yet, why should one be afraid of the shame? 'Tis nothing, when we are dead."
"Is this thy fear then?" said Juan, patiently. "It is not permitted us to commit suicide in any form. I will eat, to satisfy thee; but food is bitter in prison."
"What a pity," muttered Najara, as Juan ate a morsel of food, "that heaven should give thee such a goodly and godlike body, and such a brave soul, (for, o' my life, I believe thou art entirely without fear,) and yet make thee a madman and traitor!"
"A traitor!" said Juan, without taking any offence, for, indeed, he seemed to have been robbed of all the fire of his spirit. "It is not possible anybody can believe me a traitor."
"Pho! did I not, with mine own eyes, see thee lunge at Cortes? It is base of thee to deny it."
"I do not deny it," said Juan; adding, vehemently, "but I call heaven to witness, I saw not his face, and knew him not. He may persecute me to death, as I believe he is doing. Yet could I do him no wrong; no, I think, I could not.—But it is bitter, to feel we are trampled on!"