ul--could have acted like this--with that profound simplicity,
with such resignation, with such horrible moderation--But I wanted
to find out more. "And when would you want me to go?" I asked, with
a dissimulation of which I would not have suspected myself capable a
moment before. I was maturing in the fire of love, of danger; in the
lurid light of life piercing through my youthful innocence.

"Ah," he said, banging the pistol on to the table hurriedly. "At once.
To-night. Now."

"Without seeing anybody?"

"Without seeing... Oh, of course. In your own interest."

He was very quiet now. "I thought you looked intelligent enough," he
said, appearing suddenly very tired. "I am glad you see your position.
You shall go far in the Royal service, on the faith of Pat O'Brien,
English as you are. I will make it my own business for the sake of--the
Riego family. There is only one little condition."

He pulled out of his pocket a piece of paper, a pen, a travelling
inkstand. He looked the lawyer to the life; the Spanish family lawyer
grafted on an Irish attorney.

"You can't see anybody. But you ought to write. Dona Seraphina naturally
would be interested. A cousin and... I shall explain to Don Balthasar,
of course.... I will dictate: 'Out of regard for your future, and the
desire for active life, of your own will, you accept eagerly Senor
O'Brien's proposition.' She'll understand."

"Oh, yes, she'll understand," I said.

"Yes. And that you will write of your safe arrival in Tamaulipas. You
must promise to write. Your word..."

"By heavens, Senor O'Brien!" I burst out with inexpressible scorn,
"I thought you meant your villains to cut my throat on the passage. I
should have deserved no better fate."

He started. I shook with rage. A change had come upon both of us as
sudden as if we had been awakened by a violent noise. For a time we did
not speak a word. One look at me was enough for him. He passed his hand
over his forehead.

"What devil's in you, boy?" he said. "I seem to make nothing but
mistakes."

He went to the loophole window, and, advancing his head, cried out:

"The schooner does not sail to-night."

He had some of his cut-throats posted under the window. I could not make
out the reply he got; but after a while he said distinctly, so as to be
heard below:

"I give up that spy to you." Then he came back, put the pistol in his
pocket, and said to me, "Fool! I'll make you long for death yet."

"You've gi