"All serene."

The man from above dropped down into the road, a clumsy, cloaked figure.
He turned his lanthorn upon me, in a painful yellow glare.

"What! 'Tis the young 'un," he grunted, after a moment. "Read the
warrant, Thorns."

My captor began to fumble in his pocket, pulled out a paper, and bent
down into the light. Suddenly he paused and looked up at me.

"This ain't------ Mr. Lilly white, I don't believe this ain't a
Jack Spaniard."

The clinks of bits and stirrup-irons came down in a waft again.

"That be hanged for a tale, Thorns," the man with the lanthorn said
sharply. "If this here ain't Riego--or the other--I'll . . ."

I began to come out of my stupor.

"My name's John Kemp," I said.

The other grunted. "Hurry up, Thorns."

"But, Mr. Lillywhite," Thorns reasoned, "he don't speak like a Dago.
Split me if he do! And we ain't in a friendly country either, you know
that. We can't afford to rile the gentry!"