"I do not know what you can have to fear from these men."

"Perhaps they are spies?"

Fray Antonio a.s.sumed a paternal air.

"Spies?" he said; "Do you fear an ambuscade?"

"Under the circ.u.mstances in which we now are, that supposition is not so improbable, I fancy."

"Nonsense! in a country like this, and with the escort you have at your service, that would be extraordinary; moreover, these two men let themselves be captured without resistance, as I heard, when they might easily have escaped."

"That is true."

"It is evident, then, that they had no bad intentions. If I were you, I would quietly let them go where they pleased."

"Is that your advice?"

"Indeed it is."

"You seem to take a great interest in these two strangers."

"I? Not the least in the world. I only tell you what is right, that's all: now you can act as you please. I wash my hands of it."

"You may be right, still I will not set these persons at liberty till they have told me the name of the person they were expecting."

"Were they expecting anybody?"

"They say so, at any rate."

"It is true, Captain," said the person who had hitherto spoken; "but though we knew you were coming, it was not you we were waiting for."

"Who was it, then?"

"Do you insist on knowing?"

"Certainly."

"Then answer, Fray Antonio," the prisoner said with a grin; "for you alone can reveal the name the Captain asks of us."

"I?" the monk said with a start of pa.s.sion, and turning pale as a corpse.

"Ah, ah!" the Captain said, as he turned to him, "this is beginning to grow interesting."

It was a singular scene presented by the four men standing round the fire, whose flame fantastically lit up their faces.

The Captain carelessly smoked his cigarette, while looking sarcastically at the monk, on whose face impudence and fear were fighting a battle, every incident in which was easy to read; the two hunters, with their hands crossed over the muzzles of their long rifles, smiled cunningly, and seemed to be quietly enjoying the embarra.s.sment of the man whom they had placed in this terrible dilemma.

"Don't pretend to look so surprised, Padre Antonio," the prisoner then at length said; "you know very well we were expecting you."

"Me?" the monk said in a choking voice; "the scoundrel is mad, on my soul."

"I am not mad, Padre, and I will trouble you not to employ such language toward me," the prisoner replied drily.

"Come, give in," the other, who had hitherto been silent, cried coa.r.s.ely; "I do not care to dance at the end of a rope for your good pleasure."

"Which will inevitably happen," the Captain remarked quietly, "if you do not decide, Caballeros, on giving me a clear and explicit explanation of your conduct."

"There you see, Senor Frayle," the prisoner continued, "our position is growing delicate; come, behave like a man."

"Oh!" the monk exclaimed furiously, "I have fallen into a horrible trap."

"Enough," the Captain said in a thundering voice; "this farce has lasted only too long, Padre Antonio. It is not you who have fallen into a trap, but you tried to draw me into one. I have known you for a long time, and possess the most circ.u.mstantial details about the plans you were devising. It is a dangerous game you have been playing for a long time; a man cannot serve G.o.d and the devil simultaneously, without all being discovered at last; still, I wished to confront you with these worthy men, in order to confound you, and make the mask fall from your hypocritical face."

At this rude apostrophe the Monk was for a moment stunned, crushed as he was beneath the weight of the charges brought against him; at length he raised his head and turned to the Captain.

"Of what am I accused?" he asked haughtily.

Don Juan smiled contemptuously.

"You are accused," he replied, "of having wished to lead the conducta I command into an ambush formed by you, and where at this moment your worthy acolytes are waiting to ma.s.sacre and rob us. What will you reply to that?"

"Nothing," he answered, drily.

"You are right, for your denials would not be accepted. Still, now that you are convicted by your own confession, you will not escape without an eternal recollection of our meeting."

"Take care of what you are about to do, Senor Captain: I belong to the church, and this gown renders me inviolable."

A mocking smile contracted the Captain's lips.

"No matter for that," he replied, "it shall be stripped off you."

Most of the troopers and arrieros, aroused by the loud voices of the monk and the officer, had gradually drawn nearer, and attentively followed the conversation.

The Captain pointed to the monk, and addressed the soldiers.

"Strip off the gown that covers that man," he said; "fasten him to a catalpa, and give him two hundred lashes with a _chicote_."

"Villains!" the monk exclaimed, nearly out of his mind; "Any man of you who dares to lay hands on me I curse; he will be eternally condemned for having insulted a minister of the altar."

The soldiers stopped in terror before this anathema, which their ignorance and stupid superst.i.tion robbed them of the courage to brave.

The monk folded his arms, and addressed the officer triumphantly--

"Wretched madman," he said, "I could punish you for your audacity, but I pardon you. Heaven will undertake to avenge me, and you will be punished when your last hour arrives. Farewell! Make room for me to pa.s.s, fellows!"

The dragoons, confused and timid, fell back slowly and hesitatingly before him; the Captain, forced to confess his impotence, clenched his fists, as he looked pa.s.sionately around him.

The monk had all but pa.s.sed through the ranks of the soldiers, when he suddenly felt his arm clutched; he turned with the evident intention of severely reprimanding the man who was so audacious as to touch him, but the expression of his face suddenly changed on seeing who it was that stopped him, and looked at him craftily, for it was no other than the strange prisoner, the first cause of the insult offered him.