These last words were pronounced in a strange tone of menace as though he were supernaturally aware of some suspended disasters.  With his burning eyes he was the image of an Inquisitor with an unconquerable soul in that frail body.  But suddenly he dropped his eyelids and the conversation finished as characteristically as it had begun:  with a slow, dismissing inclination of the head and an “Adios, Senor—­may God guard you from sin.”

CHAPTER III

I must say that for the next three months I threw myself into my unlawful trade with a sort of desperation, dogged and hopeless, like a fairly decent fellow who takes deliberately to drink.  The business was getting dangerous.  The bands in the South were not very well organized, worked with no very definite plan, and now were beginning to be pretty closely hunted.  The arrangements for the transport of supplies were going to pieces; our friends ashore were getting scared; and it was no joke to find after a day of skilful dodging that there was no one at the landing place and have to go out again with our compromising cargo, to slink and lurk about the coast for another week or so, unable to trust anybody and looking at every vessel we met with suspicion.  Once we were ambushed by a lot of “rascally Carabineers,” as Dominic called them, who hid themselves among the rocks after disposing a train of mules well in view on the seashore.  Luckily, on evidence which I could never understand, Dominic detected something suspicious.  Perhaps it was by virtue of some sixth sense that men born for unlawful occupations may be gifted with.  “There is a smell of treachery about this,” he remarked suddenly, turning at his oar.  (He and I were pulling alone in a little boat to reconnoitre.) I couldn’t detect any smell and I regard to this day our escape on that occasion as, properly speaking, miraculous.  Surely some supernatural power must have struck upwards the barrels of the Carabineers’ rifles, for they missed us by yards.  And as the Carabineers have the reputation of shooting straight, Dominic, after swearing most horribly, ascribed our escape to the particular guardian angel that looks after crazy young gentlemen.  Dominic believed in angels in a conventional way, but laid no claim to having one of his own.  Soon afterwards, while sailing quietly at night, we found ourselves suddenly near a small coasting vessel, also without lights, which all at once treated us to a volley of rifle fire.  Dominic’s mighty and inspired yell:  “A plat ventre!” and also an unexpected roll to windward saved all our lives.  Nobody got a scratch.  We were past in a moment and in a breeze then blowing we had the heels of anything likely to give us chase.  But an hour afterwards, as we stood side by side peering into the darkness, Dominic was heard to mutter through his teeth:  “Le metier se gate.”  I, too, had the feeling that the trade, if not altogether spoiled,