“Kindness,” replied the Bohemian.
“Shall I swear to show thee such, if thou art true guide to us on this pilgrimage?”
“No,” replied Hayraddin, “it were extravagant waste of a commodity so rare. To thee I am bound already.”
“How?” exclaimed Durward, more surprised than ever.
“Remember the chestnut trees on the banks of the Cher! The victim whose body thou didst cut down was my brother, Zamet the Maugrabin.”
“And yet,” said Quentin, “I find you in correspondence with those very officers by whom your brother was done to death, for it was one of them who directed me where to meet with you—the same, doubtless, who procured yonder ladies your services as a guide.”
“What can we do?” answered Hayraddin, gloomily. “These men deal with us as the sheepdogs do with the flock, they protect us for a while, drive us hither and thither at their pleasure, and always end by guiding us to the shambles.”
Quentin had afterwards occasion to learn that the Bohemian spoke truth in this particular, and that the Provost guard, employed to suppress the vagabond bands by which the kingdom was infested, entertained correspondence among them, and forbore, for a certain time, the exercise of their duty, which always at last ended in conducting their allies to the gallows. This is a sort of political relation between thief and officer, for the profitable exercise of their mutual professions, which has subsisted in all countries, and is by no means unknown to our own.
Durward, parting from the guide, fell back to the rest of the retinue, very little satisfied with the character of Hayraddin, and entertaining little confidence in the professions of gratitude which he had personally made to him. He proceeded to sound the other two men who had been assigned him for attendants, and he was concerned to find them stupid and as unfit to assist him with counsel, as in the rencounter they had shown themselves reluctant to use their weapons.
“It is all the better,” said Quentin to himself, his spirit rising with the apprehended difficulties of his situation, “that lovely young lady shall owe all to me. What one hand—ay, and one head can do—methinks I can boldly count upon. I have seen my father's house on fire, and he and my brothers lying dead amongst the flames—I gave not an inch back, but fought it out to the last. Now I am two years older, and have the best and fairest cause to bear me well that ever kindled mettle within a brave man's bosom.”