“And you are not thinking of escaping?” I said.
“I have not even the faintest wish to escape,” he replied.
“You could not escape if you did,” I said, “for the room would be locked, of course. But if I were disposed to do what you ask, how could I get the key?”
“That is an easy matter,” said Marcos. “Ask the good señora to let you have it. Did I not notice her eyes dwelling lovingly on your face—for, doubtless, you reminded her of some absent relative, a favourite nephew, perhaps. She would not deny you anything in reason; and a kindness, friend, even to the poorest man, is never thrown away.”
“I will think about it,” I said, and shortly after that I left him.
It was a sultry evening, and, the close, smoky atmosphere of the kitchen becoming unendurable, I went out and sat down on a log of wood out of doors. Here the old Juez, in his character of amiable host, came and discoursed for half an hour on lofty matters relating to the republic. Presently his wife came out, and, declaring that the evening air would have an injurious effect on his inflamed eye, persuaded him to go indoors. Then she subsided into a place at my side, and began to talk about Fernando’s dreadful temper and the many cares of her life.
“What a very serious young man you are!” she remarked, changing her tone somewhat abruptly. “Do you keep all your gay and pleasant speeches for the young and pretty señoritas?”
“Ah, señora, you are yourself young and beautiful in my eyes,” I replied; “but I have no heart to be gay when my poor fellow-traveller is fastened in the stocks, where your cruel husband would also have confined me but for your timely intervention. You are so kindhearted, cannot you have his poor tired legs taken out in order that he may also rest properly tonight?”
“Ah, little friend,” she returned. “I could not attempt such a thing. Fernando is a monster of cruelty, and would immediately put out my eyes without remorse. Poor me, what I have to endure!”—and here she placed her fat hand on mine.
I drew my hand away somewhat coldly; a born diplomatist could not have managed the thing better.
“Madam,” I said, “you are amusing yourself at my expense. When you have done me a great favour, will you now deny me this small thing? If your husband is so terrible a despot, surely you can do this without letting him know! Let me get my poor Marcos out of the stocks and I give you my word of honour that the Juez will never hear of it, for I will be up early to turn the key in the lock before he is out of his bed.”
“And what will my reward be?” she asked, again putting her hand on mine.
“The deep gratitude and devotion of my heart,” I returned, this time without withdrawing my hand.
“Can I refuse anything to my sweet boy?” said she. “After supper I shall slip the key into your hand; I am going now to get it from his room. Before Fernando retires, ask to see your Marcos, to take him a rug, or some tobacco or something; and do not let the servant see what you do, for he will be at the door waiting to lock it when you come out.”
After supper the promised key was secretly conveyed to me, and I had not the least difficulty in liberating my friend in misfortune. Luckily the man who took me to Marcos left us alone for some time, and I related my conversation with the fat woman.
He jumped up, and, seizing my hand, wrung it till I almost screamed with pain.
“My good friend,” he said, “you have a noble, generous soul, have done me the greatest service it is possible for one man to render to another. You have, in fact, now placed me in a position to—enjoy my night’s rest. Good night, and may Heaven’s angels put it in my power to reward you at some future time!”
The fellow was overdoing it a little, I thought; then, when I had seen him safely locked up for the night, I walked back to the kitchen slowly and very thoughtfully.
XI
The Woman and the Serpent
I walked thoughtfully back, because, after rendering that unimportant service to Marcos, I began to experience sundry qualms of conscience and inward questionings concerning the strict morality of the whole proceeding. Allowing that I had done something very kind, charitable, and altogether praiseworthy in getting the poor fellow’s unfortunate feet out of the stocks, did all that justify the cajolery I had practised to attain my object? Or, to put it briefly in the old familiar way: Does the end sanctify the means? Assuredly it does in some cases, very easy to be imagined. Let us suppose that I have a beloved friend, an ailing person of a nervous, delicate organisation, who has taken it into his poor cracked brains that he is going to expire at the stroke of twelve on a given night. Without consulting the authorities on ethical questions, I should, in such a case, flit about his room secretly manipulating his timepieces, till I had advanced them a whole hour, and then, just before the stroke of midnight, triumphantly produce my watch and inform him that death had failed to keep the appointment. Such an acted lie as that would weigh nothing on the conscience of any man. The fact of the matter is, the circumstances must always be considered and every case judged on its own particular merits. Now, this affair of getting the key was not one for me to judge, since I had been a chief actor in it,
