Sometimes I get hungry to
see him."
"Why don't you go and fight by his side?" Jacket demanded.
"God forbid!" Morin flung up his hands. "I'm a loyal subject."
"Well, we are going back to fight. We are going to escape and join
Gomez once more!" Jacket made the announcement calmly.
"'S-SH! What talk!" Morin was in a nervous panic lest they be
overheard. "As if anybody could escape from Matanzas! What made
you come here if you are so eager to fight?"
"I'll tell you." O'Reilly assumed direction of the conversation.
"There are three of us brothers, we two and Esteban, a pretty
little fellow. He was captured by Cobo's men and driven in, and we
came to find him."
"You came HERE--here to Matanzas?" Old Morin was incredulous. He
muttered an oath. "That was a very nice thing to do. And did you
find him?"
"Oh yes! That was easy enough, for the lad is deformed."
"Tse! Tse! What a pity!"
"But he is sick--dying--"
"Of course. They're all dying--the poor people! It is terrible."
"We--" O'Reilly faltered slightly, so much hung upon the manner in
which Morin would take what he was about to say. "We want to get
him out of here--we MUST do so, or we'll lose him."
Sensing some hidden significance, some obscure purpose behind this
confession, the Spaniard looked sharply at the speaker. His
leathery countenance darkened.
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