Mexia’s eyes wandered to the other’s face.  “Ha, senor!  I remember your face at Nueva Cordoba!  Have we here more of our conquered?” His speech began with the pomp of the frog in the fable, but at this point became maudlin again and returned to the one-time Governor of Nueva Cordoba’s dealings with his creatures.  “Why, Desmond was a fool to name such a price.  One hundred pesos, perhaps—­but four thousand!  But Don Luiz smiled and paid down the silver, and the fool that was traitor to us and traitor to you and traitor to himself told all things and was hanged for his pains.”  Up went his tankard to his lips, and as it descended wine was spilt upon his neighbor’s sleeve.  The victim drew away with a smothered oath, and Brava eyed with displeasure his drunken associate.

“Why, for what could the man ask such a price?” Arden asked, with light surprise.

In a moment the other’s large and vacuous countenance became sober enough.  “For a trap to catch flies,” he said, shortly, and turning his shoulder to all but the men of highest rank, again wetted his throat, then let his empty tankard touch the board with a clattering sound.

From the first he had drawn attention, and now at the drumming of the tankard most faces turned his way.  Nevil spoke to Drake beneath his breath; the latter bending towards Alonzo Brava, addressed him in a very low tone.  Brava, deeply annoyed, on the point of signalling his servitors to “quietly persuade from the table his drunken guest, listened, though still frowning.  A final whisper from Drake: 

“In no way toucheth your honor, a private matter—­favors—­ransom—­”

The governor, leaning forward, playing with his wine, gave some sign of acquiescence—­perhaps, indeed, may have had his own indifferences to any blackening of the character of Don Luiz de Guardiola, now nourishing at Madrid like a green bay-tree.

Mexia was displaying profound skill in the nice balancement of his tankard as the servant behind him refilled the measure.  “Ha, Don Pedro!” cried Drake, with his bluff laugh, “art on that four-years-gone matter of Nueva Cordoba?  Methinks Sir John Nevil brought off a knightly sufficiency of credit—­”

“Sir John Nevil—­Oh!  Ay!” said Mexia, and with both hands carefully lowered the tankard to the level of the table.  “Did Sir Mortimer Ferne bring forth such a—­what’s the word?—­knightly sufficiency?  Now I’ve often wondered—­’Tis true I had my grudge against him also, but in such matters I go not so far as De Guardiola, who brands the soul....  I told Don Luiz as much four years ago.  ‘Why, I kill my man,’ quoth I, ’and go on my way singing.’”

“And what said he to that?” queried Arden, lightly and easily drawing on Mexia, who, in his cups, became merely a garrulous old man.

“Why,” continued the envoy, “he said, ’Mayhap the dead do not remember.  So live, my foe! but live in hell, remembering the brand upon thy soul, and that ‘twas I who set it glowing there!’”