“I judge men not by their assertions, but their acts,” returned the Spaniard coldly—
“Senhor,” I said, addressing the angry host, “you certainly have reason to question the motives of our midnight intrusion; but I declare, upon the honour of a British officer, it was entirely a silly trespass—one that I cannot justify, but one from which, towards you, no mischief was designed. Let it be overlooked, and I promise, that while we remain beneath your roof, we will confine ourselves to whatever portion of your premises it may be your pleasure to restrain us.”
“Captain O’llalloran,” returned the Spaniard, coldly, “whatever your intentions may have been, your conduct warrants me to draw very different conclusions than the motives you have been pleased to assign. The safety of myself—-my family—those who are connected with me—all require me to guard against treachery. True, it has rarely come concealed beneath an English uniform—and, I am half persuaded, you harboured no evil against me and mine; but you came here under a suspicious introduction. I am a devoted man, and now completely in your power. You have seen too much—and yet too little. In one brief sentence I speak your doom—a stern necessity compels me to be severe—cruel—if it please ye better. One course alone remains to be pursued; I must secure myself, my friends, my wife.”
“That’s her I took for the ghost,” said the fosterer, apart—“and the divil a foot I would have put into the garden but for the same lady.”
“Hush! Proceed, sir,” I answered.
“Nothing can make us safe, but death or deportation. Walk with me, sirs. ‘Twere idle to remonstrate here, or to refuse obedience to my order”—and, with the perfect confidence that he had made no statement which he could not effectually support, the Spaniard stalked on, and the fosterer and I followed.
“Well—Mr. O’Toole,” I said, as, like two convicted culprits, we sullenly retraced our steps. “A pretty kettle of fish you have made of it!”
“Oh!”—groaned the fosterer—“the game’s up. The curse of Cromwell light upon the country! Is’nt it hard that a man can’t slip out of a window to take a little air without having his throat cut?”
As he spoke we reached the extremity of the garden. La Pablos unclosed a door. We entered the same chamber where, two or three minutes since, we had witnessed a scene of social comfort. There the remnant of the supper stood—but the company were gone, and their places had been filled by personages of a very different, and a very dangerous exterior.
It was hard to define their appearance. Their garb was that of mariners; in all besides, they looked banditti. My impression was not singular,—for the fosterer, in a whisper, declared that, “compared with these villains, the guerillas were regular gentlemen.” All were armed—and I should say, there was not a member of this respectable community, who, like Friar Tuck, would hesitate on resorting to the “carnal weapon,” were it needed.