At this the mute paused, whimpered, cast a terrified look at Hilo’s unpromising countenance, and ended by turning off abruptly from the course they were about to pursue.
A few yards farther, the captain, who was in advance, cried out:
“Hey! Yonder goes one of those Portuguese rascals. Hallo, you sir, come here or I will fetch you with a bullet.”
Whereupon the peasant came down the narrow path he was ascending hastily, without demur.
“I am a poor working-man,” he whined out deprecatingly, “and have nothing to do with fighting, señor. For the love of charity, give me something, for my children to eat, who are dying of hunger.”
“I will give you what will keep you from ever being hungry,” Hilo answered curtly, “if you don’t show us where your viceroy is hid.”
“I take all the saints to witness, I have not seen the viceroy this month or more,” the fellow exclaimed, falling on his knees.
“What is that you are rolling in your mouth?” Carlo demanded, seizing him suddenly by the jaws and forcing a ducat out. The captain’s interest was aroused, and he thoroughly searched the clothing of the Portuguese despite his lamentations.
“You may be worse off,” the captain rejoined after his fruitless trouble, “if you trouble us any more about your whelps.”
And Hilo crying impatiently, “One is enough to guide us; leave the idiot alone,” they crossed a ravine which De Ladron recognized as one they had before visited, and confirmed a suspicion of the Moor’s duplicity. Turning upon him in a fury he uttered: