“Such being your intention, I would recommend that you return by the shortest and openest route. Should you touch upon a French outpost, this gentleman will protect you,” and he pointed to Lieutenant Cammaran; “if you fall in with the allied cwalry, you will return the compliment; and should you tumble upon any friends of ours during the journey, you carry a passport that every partida on the peninsula will respect. Ho, Diego! bring me yonder writing-case. Fortunately, sir, you do not require it at present,” and the Empecinado smiled as he addressed the reprieved one.
“Thanks to these noble Englishmen, I do not,” returned the lieutenant.
“I beg your pardon,” replied Mr. O’Toole; “I can’t exactly tell what countryman I am, because I was born at sea.”
“Wine!” cried the Empecinado. “Ho, landlord! stir thyself. Thou know’st my taste—none of that sorry stuff that would poison a Manolo. Let’s have some fit for Christian men. Remember, honest Gonsalvez, thou hast rarely such honourable guests. Here are three foreigners of distinction; and there a holy churchman. Of my friend here,” and he pointed to El Manco, “I shall say nothing: and modesty forbids me speaking of myself. Come, let thy wine be good, or, by San Juan, we’ll quit thy venta altogether.”
With a low bow, the alarmed innkeeper hurried off. As he passed us, the expression of his countenance was ridiculously intelligent; and to the last sentence of the Empecinado, said, or seemed to say, “I wish to Heaven you would!”
The wine that the host produced no doubt was excellent, for its effect upon the company was marvellous. Juan Diez jested with the Curate; the Frenchman and fosterer conversed in broken English; occasionally El Manco vouchsafed a relaxation of the facial muscles, which he intended to represent a smile. All seemed happy but the innkeeper; and on his dull countenance terror and anxiety were imprinted. On him the lively sallies of his distinguished visitors were lost; and the only occurrence at which his sombre features lightened was when a guerilla entered the apartment, and announced that the horses were saddled in the yard.
While the party resumed their cloaks and weapons, the Empecinado beckoned to me, and I retired with him to a corner.
“Is there aught in which I can oblige you? Speak freely,” he said.
I thanked him, and answered him in the negative.
“How is thy pocket lined, my child?” was his next question.