“It is a world of mistakes.  I travel, but I have no gold.”

“It is a usual lack of memory of the truth.  We find it often.  You are traveling with escort—­with another of your nation, your brother, we suppose.  There are servants.  You are rich.  For some great freak you leave all in the town down there and ride on alone.  Foreigners often act like madmen.  Perhaps you meant to return to the town.  Perhaps to wait for them in the inn below the pass.  You have not gold in your purse because there is bountiful gold just behind you.  Why hurt the beautiful truth?  Sancho and Pedro here were in the inn-yard last night.”

Sancho’s hoarse voice emerged from the generality.  “It was dusk, but we saw you plainly enough, we are sure, senor!  In your fine cloak, speaking English, discussing with a big tall man who rode in with you and sat down to supper with you and was of your rank and evidently, we think, your brother or close kinsman!”

The chief nodded.  “It is to him that we apply for your ransom.  You, senor, shall write the letter, and Sancho and Pedro shall carry it down.  It will be placed, without danger to us, in your brother’s hand.  We have our ways....  Then, in turn, your brother shall ride forth, with a single companion, from the town, and in a clear space that we shall indicate, put the ransom beneath a certain rock, turning his horse at once and returning the way he came.  If the gold is put there, as much as we ask, and according to our conditions, you shall go free as a bird, senor, though perhaps with as little luggage as a bird.  If we do not receive the ransom—­why, then, the life of a bird is a little thing!  We shall put you to death.”

Ian combated the profound mistake.  What was the use?  They did not expect him to speak truth, but they were convinced that they had the truth themselves.  At last it came, on his part, to a titanic whimsicalness of assent.  At least, assenting, he would not die in the immediate hour!  Stubbornly refuse to do their bidding, and his thread of life would be cut here and now.

“All events grow to seem unintelligible masks!  So why quarrel with one mask more?  Pen, ink, and paper?”

All were produced.

“I must write in English?”

“That is understood, senor.  Now this—­and this—­is what you are to write in English.”

The captive made a correct guess that not more than one or two of the captors could read Spanish, and none at all English.

“Nevertheless, senor,” said the chief, “you will know that if the gold is not put in that place and after that fashion that I tell you, we shall let you die, and that not easily!  So we think that you will not make English mistakes any more than Spanish ones.”

Ian nodded.  He wrote the letter.  Sancho put it in his bosom and with Pedro disappeared from the dark ravine.  The situation relaxed.

“You shall eat, drink, sleep, and be entirely comfortable, senor, until they return.  If they bring the gold you shall pursue your road at your pleasure even with a piece for yourself, for we are nothing if not generous!  If they do not bring it, why, then, of course—!”