"Which ov them de yez want, misthress?--the saint, or the Howly Mother,
or both?--it's all the same to Murtagh."
The woman, observing what he was after, rushed forward, and, placing her
hands upon his, said in a kind tone:
"_No, Senor. Su proteccion necesita usted_."
"Phwhat diz she say, Raowl?"
"She says, keep them; you will need their protection yourself."
"Och, be me sowl! she's not far asthray there. I need it bad enough
now, an' a hape ov good they're likely to do me. They've hung there for
tin years--both of thim; and this nate little flask's the first raal
binifit I iver resaved from ayther of them. Thry it, Captin. It'll do
yez good."
I took the bottle and drank. It was the _chingarito_--a bad species of
_aguardiente_ from the wild aloe--and hot as fire. A mouthful sufficed.
I handed the flask to Clayley, who drank more freely. Raoul followed
suit, and the bottle came back to the Irishman.
"Your hilth, darlint!" said he, nodding to the Mexican woman. "May yez
live till _I_ wish ye dead!"