“He is not in prison?” demanded Thorne.
“No, no—he is not.”
“Then thank God he is in safer hands than yours or your friends,—he is safe. Confess, Le Brun, that you seek him to save yourself?”
“He is safe, you say;—did you say he was safe?”
“I did,” said Thorne, who had no idea of Mendoza running any risk, except that of his falling into the hands of Rosas. “But begone, sir. I see your object;—you would now sell his life to save your own little miserable existence.”
“Mr Thorne,” said Le Brun, “I am too abject now to resent insults or injuries. Thanks be to Heaven! Mendoza is now safe;—my course is now clear. I can prove to you now that, however base you may think me, I have his interest at heart.”
“Yes, after your own weak truckling schemes have failed. Go on, sir.”
“Thorne, my steps were tracked out to Mendoza’s chacra; my steps were watched to Mendoza’s house last night, he was seized, but, Thorne, not by my information—no, thank God! not by mine. After this confession, I ask you if I am not more to be pitied than despised. I may be upbraided as a spy and traitor, but I have always struggled to befriend Mendoza.”
“And why, Le Brun, are you so anxious to know of Mendoza?”
“If I find him not by sunset, I myself suffer the punishment intended for him.”