I smiled; and jestingly replied that a long price was beyond the means of a young subaltern.
“But we can afford long credit,” said the Empecinado, in the same playful mood.
“Worse still, Don Juan. My father is an old soldier, and in his catalogue of military offendings, debt holds a prominent place.”
“Pause, my friend, until you hear the terms of sale. To your companion, I owe a life. His shall be the horse. Settle the price with him, and to him transfer the value. But no more of this. The roads are sometimes puzzling to a stranger, and that follower of mine”—he pointed to the mounted guerilla—“will accompany you to the first town where mules and a guide are procurable. You may trust him implicitly; in everything he will direct you; he is true as steel, and could lead you blindfolded from one end of Toledo to the other.”
He pressed my hand, sprang into the saddle of the troop-horse I had just vacated, and, with a kind adieu, cantered after his companions, who were now fully half a mile ahead, and, in a round trot, hurrying towards the highlands. A turn in the road speedily concealed him—and it was the last I ever saw of Juan. Diez.
I soon overtook my fellow-travellers. On what subjects they had previously occupied themselves I cannot guess, but my advent caused the fosterer to be rather anxious to hurry what seemed an undecided monetary transaction to its close.
“Oh! the divil a shurrich they would leave ye—the thieves!” observed Mark Antony to Lieutenant Cammaran.
“Shurreeke!” repeated the Frenchman,—“what you mean by shurreeke?”
“Not a music,” said the fosterer, in explanation.
“Music—music!” and Lieutenant Cammaran shrugged his shoulders.