One of the Americans within drew near the window.
"Listen," he said. "Do you want to earn some money—ten—twenty—one hundred dollars in gold? Will you take a letter for me to Los Robles?"
"No. The general would skin me alive. I spit upon your offer. I throw dirt upon you."
Cabenza stooped, in his hand scooped up some dust from the ground, and flung it between the bars.
One of the guards pulled him back savagely.
"Icabron! Know you not the orders of the general? None are to talk with the Gringos. Away, fool! Because of the drink Pablo and I will forget. Away!"
Cabenza showed a face ludicrously terror-stricken. The punishments of Pasquale were notoriously severe. If it were known he had broken the command he would at least be beaten with whips.
"I did not know. I did not know," he explained humbly, thrusting the liquor bottle at one of them. "Here, compañero, drink and forget that I have spoken."
He turned and scurried away into the darkness.