And the cunning smile which accompanied these words at once established a difference between the torero's family and that woman, giving them to understand that Gallardo's relations with Doña Sol were no secret to him. In the bottom of this rough peasant's heart was a deep respect for legitimate marriage, and he thought himself free to take greater liberties with the torero's aristocratic friend than with the poor women who formed his family.
Doña Sol took no notice, but she pressed the bandit with questions as to how he had come to be what he was.
"It was injustice, Señora Marquesa, one of those misfortunes which fall upon us poor people. I was one of the sharpest in my village, and the labourers always put me as spokesman when they had anything to ask from the rich people. I can read and write, for I became sacristan when I was quite a boy, and I gained my name of Plumitas from running after the hens and plucking out their tail feathers for pens."
A thump from Potaje interrupted him.
"Comparé, I had already thought since I saw you that you were a church rat, or something similar."
El Nacional was silent, without daring to remark on these confidences, but he smiled slightly. A sacristan turned into a bandit! What would Don Joselito say when he told him this!
"I married my wife and our first child was born. One night two civil guards came to our house, and carried me out of the village, to the threshing floors. Some one had fired some shots at the door of a rich man, and those good gentlemen made up their minds it was I. I denied it and they beat me with their carbines. I denied it again, and again they beat me. To cut it short, till dawn they beat me all over the body, sometimes with the ramrods, sometimes with the butt-ends, till they got tired and I became unconscious. They had tied both my hands and my feet, and beat me as if I were a bundle, saying: 'Are you not the bravest in your village? Get up and defend yourself, let's see how far your fists can reach.' It was their mockery I felt the most. My poor wife cured me as best she could, but I could not rest, I could not live remembering the blows and the mockery.... To cut it short again: one day one of those civil guards was found dead on the threshing floor, and I, to save myself annoyance, fled to the mountains ... and up to now...."
"Gacho, you did well," said Potaje admiringly. "And the other one?"
"I know not; I think he must still be alive. He fled from the village; with all his valour he begged to be removed, but I have not forgotten him. Some day I shall settle with him. Sometimes I am told he is at the other end of Spain, and there I go. I would go if it were to hell itself. I leave the mare and the carbine with some friend to keep for me and I take the train like a gentleman. I have been in Barcelona, in Valladolid, in many other places. I stand near the prison and watch the civil guards who go in and out. 'This is not my man, neither is this one.' My informants must have been mistaken, but it does not signify. I have searched for him for years and some day I shall meet him—unless he be dead, which would be a real pity."
Doña Sol followed this story with great interest. What an original figure was Plumitas! She had been mistaken in thinking him a rabbit.