Drake (much interested). Are these the real bodies of the dead? How have they been preserved?
Comagre. The art is of ancient time, and came from beyond the great sea with the first fathers of the land. They are dried by fire, then wrapped in cloth of cotton with potent spices. Their robes are embroidered by the hands of our women, skilled in a secret language, which perpetuates to their descendants the memory of their deeds.
Drake. They are covered with gold and precious stones, which you would do well to conceal from the Spaniards. These diamonds and emeralds, these rubies and pearls are of priceless value. Not all the Royal Crowns and robes of Europe could show the like. They are safe from us; but if they were the property of Spain, I would tear them from convent, church, or altar.
Comagre. Noble Englishman, ’tis for this I love you, and have sought your friendship. I have opened my home—my treasures—my heart to you. Give us vengeance! if not protection. Friend hear the wrongs of our country in the presence of these noble dead. It is now a few years, since two Spaniards, sinking under fatigue and hunger, were captured in the forest having fled for their lives from their own cruel countrymen. They should have been put to death at once, being Spaniards, but the kindness of our nature prevailed. They were saved, brought home to the village, protected, nourished, treated as brothers.
Drake (deeply interested). How kind! How good! Well, friend?
Comagre (with bitter indignation). Well! They held secret intercourse with our foes.
Drake. Treacherous villains!
Comagre. With the very men who had doomed them to ignominious death as traitors.
Drake. Which they deserved.
Comagre. Betrayed the homes, the wealth, the secret paths of those who had sheltered—saved them.