"Fine feathers, fine feathers!" muttered the landlord. He took the garments up one by one, turning them over and commenting on them. There was a black cloth pelisse, a white dolman with gold braid and fur, and a shako of scarlet cloth, surmounted by an aigrette of white heron’s plumes. The uniform was ornate with gold braid, cord, and buttons; and a rich sash of black and gold silk, a small cartridge-pouch, a sabretache, and a long Damascene sabre completed the brilliant appointments. As Jack watched the landlord fingering the articles, he recognized vaguely that they could only have belonged to a soldier of high rank or position, and for the first time he wondered what had brought the Frenchman to this out-of-the-way village of Valdestillos. The landlord stroked the fur of the dolman caressingly. "Worth some dollars, this," he said, shaking it out to see its full extent. As he did so, a folded paper fell to the floor. Jack was up in an instant. "I want that," he said, fatigue, hunger, disappointment forgotten at once. He stepped forward, but the landlord put his foot on the paper. "No, no, Señor," he said quickly. "He was my prisoner; I killed him; all his things are mine." "But don’t you see," said Jack, now hardly able to control his excitement; "don’t you see, the man was a despatch-rider! That explains his rich uniform. Perhaps he was one of Napoleon’s own aides-de-camp, and the fate of all Spain may lie in that simple paper. You must give it to me, landlord; I must take it to my general." Jack was too much agitated at the moment to perceive that his urgent manner was likely to defeat his ends. The probability that the paper had value had aroused the cupidity of the landlord, who stooped cautiously, picked up the despatch, and thrust it into his pocket. "It is mine—mine," he said gloatingly. The man’s attitude served to quiet Jack’s nerves. "Very well," he said. "Keep it. I wouldn’t be in your shoes for something. Your servants have seen the despatch. Look, there’s a crowd of peasants gaping at the door there. You can’t keep it quiet, even if anything happens to me; and when General Stewart finds out what a patriot you are, he’ll send you to the Marquis of La Romana, and then—" Jack shrugged expressively. The servants cast uneasy glances at their master, who at first frowned at them, then himself looked uncomfortable. "What does the Señor offer for it?" he said at length with a covetous leer. "You sell your patriotism, eh? Well, I’ll give you five dollars." The landlord shook his head. "I have lost many dollars of late through the war. It is worth more than five dollars." "Well, I won’t stick at a few dollars. Say ten." "No, no. The Marquis of La Romana would give more than ten."