Byrne says he was so astonished by the sudden appearance of that sprite-like being, and by the sardonic bitterness of the speech, that he was unable to disentangle the significant fact from what seemed but a piece of family history fired out at him without rhyme or reason. Not at first. He was confounded and at the same time he was impressed by the rapid forcible delivery, quite different from the frothy excited loquacity of an Italian. So he stared while the homunculus letting his cloak fall about him, aspired an immense quantity of snuff out of the hollow of his palm. “A mule,” exclaimed Byrne seizing at last the real aspect of the discourse. “You say he has got a mule? That’s queer! Why did he refuse to let me have it?” The diminutive Spaniard muffled himself up again with great dignity. “_Quien sabe_,” he said coldly, with a shrug of his draped shoulders. “He is a great _politico_ in everything he does. But one thing your worship may be certain of—that his intentions are always rascally. This husband of my _defunta_ sister ought to have been married a long time ago to the widow with the wooden legs.” {188} “I see. But remember that, whatever your motives, your worship countenanced him in this lie.” The bright unhappy eyes on each side of a predatory nose confronted Byrne without wincing, while with that testiness which lurks so often at the bottom of Spanish dignity— “No doubt the señor officer would not lose an ounce of blood if I were stuck under the fifth rib,” he retorted. “But what of this poor sinner here?” Then changing his tone. “Señor, by the necessities of the times I live here in exile, a Castilian and an old Christian, existing miserably in the midst of these brute Asturians, and dependent on the worst of them all, who has less conscience and scruples than a wolf. And being a man of intelligence I govern myself accordingly. Yet I can hardly contain my scorn. You have heard the way I spoke. A caballero of parts like your worship might have guessed that there was a cat in there.” “What cat?” said Byrne uneasily. “Oh, I see. Something suspicious. No, señor. I guessed nothing. My nation are not good guessers at that sort of thing; and, therefore, I ask you plainly whether that wine-seller has spoken the truth in other particulars?” “There are certainly no Frenchmen anywhere about,” said the little man with a return to his indifferent manner. “Or robbers—_ladrones_?” “_Ladrones en grande_—no! Assuredly not,” was the answer in a cold philosophical tone. “What is there left for them to do after the French? And nobody travels in these times. But who can say! Opportunity makes the robber. Still that mariner of yours has a fierce aspect, and with the son of a cat rats will have no play. But there is a saying, too, that where honey is there will soon be flies.”