“Drink. Then you may feel ready to sleep. Sleep is so good, so comfortable. And remember, I have yet to attend to the boy. When one sleeps one sees nothing, one knows nothing. Whereas to a wakeful man, bound fast with cords, and compelled to watch, while—”
Once more Dyke talked loud. Again he had heard the terrified breathing from the bed. But he chose his words now, such word as might possibly relieve the strain of the listener.
“Chaves, drop all this rubbish and rot. Stop chattering. Talk sense. There’s nothing in what you’re saying to frighten anybody. It’s ridiculous.”
“Be it so. Then drink. We’ll drink together; and happily you may sleep. Take your glass.”
Behind the bulky frowning Martinez, the innkeeper’s wife showed for a moment in the doorway, and Dyke saw her sign to him not to drink. The warning was of course unnecessary. Indeed, the bandit had himself plainly indicated that he was offering a drugged beverage.
“I am obliged to you—but no.”
“Take the glass.”
Dyke took it then, and, looking steadily at Chaves, he poured the wine on the floor and replaced the glass on the table.
“Martinez.”