This,
added to his surliness of manner and expression, strengthened a
growing suspicion in the mind of the party that he was a fugitive
from justice--a forger, a derelict banker, or possibly a murderer.
It is only fair to say that the moral sense of the spectators was
not shocked at the suspicion, and that a more active sympathy was
only withheld by his reticence. An unfortunate incident seemed to
complete the evidence against him. In impatiently responding to
the landlord's curt demand for prepayment of his supper, he allowed
three or four pieces of gold to escape from his pocket on the
veranda. In the quick glances of the party, as he stooped to pick
them up, he read the danger of his carelessness.
His sullen self-possession did not seem to be shaken. Calling to
the keeper of the tienda, who had appeared at his door in time to
witness the Danae-like shower, he bade him approach, in English.
"What sort of knives have you got?"
"Knives, Senor?"
"Yes; bowie-knives or dirks. Knives like that," he said, making an
imaginary downward stroke at the table before him.
The shopkeeper entered the tienda, and presently reappeared with
three or four dirks in red leather sheaths. Guest selected the
heaviest, and tried its point on the table.
"How much?"
"Tres pesos."
The young man threw him one of his gold pieces, and slipped the
knife and its sheath in his boot. When he had received his change
from the shopkeeper, he folded his arms and leaned back against the
wall in quiet indifference.
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