“That means he is acting against your advice. The man is mad. He thought of taking us by surprise, I suppose. Why, I knew he was on his way hither two days ago! And if he does not attack us to-night—and we are quite ready for him—I shall capture him and the whole of his army to-morrow. I want you to go with us and witness the operation—in the character of a spectator.”
“And a prisoner?”
“If you choose to put it so.”
“In that case, there is no more to be said, though for choice, I would rather not witness the discomfiture of my friends.”
Griscelli gave an ironical smile, which I took to mean that it was precisely for this reason that he asked me to accompany him.
“Will you kindly receive Señor Fortescue, as your guest, Captain Guzman,” he said, “take him to your quarters, give him his supper, and find him a bed.”
“Con mucho gusto. Shall we go now, Señor Fortescue?”
I went, and spent a very pleasant evening with Captain Guzman, and several of his brother-officers, whom he invited to join us, for though the Spaniards of that age were frightfully cruel to their enemies, they were courteous to their guests, and as a guest I was treated. As, moreover, most of the men I met had served in the Peninsular war, we had quite enough to talk about without touching on topics whose discussion might have been incompatible with good fellowship.
When, at a late hour, I turned into the hammock provided for me by Guzman, it required an effort to realize that I was a prisoner. Why, I asked myself, had Griscelli, who was never known to spare a prisoner, whose face was both cruel and false, and who could bear me no good-will—why had this man treated me so courteously? Did he really mean to let me go, and if so, why; or was the promise made to the ear merely to be broken to the hope?
“Perhaps to-morrow will show,” I thought, as I fell asleep; and I was not far out, for the day after did. Guzman, whose room I shared, wakened me long before daylight.