“O’Halloran.”
“Whence come you?”
“From the Empecinado.”
“Where is he?”
“Heaven only knows.
“Your business?”
“To deliver a French despatch.”
“Are you aware of the contents?”
“No—we could not read it;” and I placed the packet in his hand. At one rapid glance his eye ran over the secret characters—
“Ha! I have the key,” he muttered; then placing the document in his coat pocket, he desired me to ride on, report myself at head quarters, wait there for further orders, gave his horse the reins—and thus ended an interview that had barely occupied a minute.