“Ho! Ho!” exclaimed the Empecinado, “said I not truly that thou wert honest? ‘Tis marvellous what virtue lies in a yard or two of hemp. There, Cura, read that letter also, and then thou and El Manco will know what will be due to justice. What proves the alcade’s letter?”
“That the writer is a traitor, and in French pay,” was the brief reply.
“And what, the worthy postmaster’s?”
“That he is a sworn confederate.”
“And what, Cura, wouldst thou term the caitiff who advisedly was bearer of treacherous intelligence?”
“I would say that, in effecting the villany of others, he was on a par, in guilt, with the traitors who employed him.”
“And now, El Manco, be it thy duty to pronounce sentence on these offenders.”
The maimed one answered this appeal by directing a concentrated look of hatred and vengeance at the convicted. Neither the alcade or De Toro had power to speak a word; but the luckless muleteer cried lustily, and in the name of every saint, for mercy and forgiveness.
“Well,” said the partida chief, “‘twere wrong to keep you in suspense, as one fate awaits ye. But we will justly apportion it according to your respective ranks.”
Here the muleteer, under fallacious expectations, broke in with a loud torrent of future loyalty and everlasting gratitude.