I assured him my purse was liberally supplied.
“I can spare thee a dozen pistoles,” he added.
I acknowledged the kindness, but declined the offered subsidy.
He looked suspiciously around, and then took a packet from his bosom, and placed it in my hand, unseen.
“Conceal these papers, and deliver them carefully, with my duty to Lord Wellington. They are written in cipher; but I know that he has a key that will unravel their contents. I feel assured that they contain important information, for I have learned through a channel where I never was deceived, that the expedition of La Coste was originally intended for no other purpose, than to enable him to communicate with another commandant to whom he was directed to transfer these papers safely. A movement of two strong detachments to secure the delivery of a letter is a sufficient guarantee, my friend, that the contents are momentous. Let us go. El Manco is impatient. Outside the village we part—thou, to the low country; I to the mountains.”
“Art thou hearing a confession in yonder corner, Empecinado?” inquired the monk.
“No, Cura, I would not usurp the functions of the church with one of its brightest ornaments immediately beside me. I was merely giving my young friend here a slight hint of what Juan Diez has experienced, and I’ll once more repeat it.” Then, turning to me, he added aloud, “‘Tis an uncertain world, and many a brilliant opening in a young life has darkly closed. Should fortune frown, friends fall off, enemies prevail—in short, should thy young career be darkened as mine was suddenly, take thy chance with Juan Diez; and thou, my friend,” and the Spaniard addressed the fosterer, “thou, too, wilt any time be welcome; and, as we crossed the Sedana, we’ll swim or sink together.”
So saying, the guerilla pointed to the door. We took the hint, and passed on. There the worthy host stood, cap in hand, bowing us out, as it became customers of distinction. I would have stopped and demanded a reckoning, but Mark Antony was of opinion that such a proceeding might have been an offence in the sight of our patrons and protectors. Certainly, I saw no bill paid or delivered; and I have reason to believe that the guerilla leaders were of the school of ancient Pistol, and consequently gentlemen of too good taste to stoop to an inquiry into accounts. And yet proofs of disinterested regard were not wanting to Senhor Velasquez. I overheard the Empecinado, as he passed, impress on this favoured innkeeper the immediate necessity of replenishing his bins with better wine, and restoring his stable-loft, which needed repair sorely. In my presence certainly none of the circulating medium passed; and, to use fashionable parlance, I verily believe the unfortunate proprietor of the posada was regularly victimized by all.
We entered the court-yard; and, thank Heaven, for the last time. A score of guerillas, mounted and dismounted, were in waiting. Cammaran passed through with averted eyes; but I ventured a look at the well-remembered spot which, within eight-and-forty hours, had witnessed a double execution. The voltigeurs were lying as they fell; the bodies weltering in a pool of blood, or exhibiting, in other cases, no mark of violence whatever. One I passed by was a mere lad. His death must have been instantaneous—one fracture in the jacket was opposite the heart—the countenance was tranquil; and a smile played upon the lip. Could that be death? I knew it was, or I could have fancied well that he was dreaming of absent friends, and calmly indulging in a siesta.
I was delighted when we cleared the court-yard. El Manco and the Cura were waiting for us—presently, Juan Diez rode up; and, followed by an escort of some score of cavalry, we, for the last time, passed along the street of Villa Moro.