"We never thought of that, Kit," says Dawson, turning to me in a pucker.
"But 'tis likely enough he has, for I observed he was mighty careless
whether we found our thief or not. That's it, sure enough. We have
nought to hope. All's lost!"

With that he drops his elbows on his knees, and stares into the fire
with a most desponding countenance, being in that stage of liquor when a
man must either laugh or weep.

"Come, Jack," says I. "You are not used to yield like this. Let us make
the best of a bad lot, and face the worst like men. Though we trudge
hence with nothing but the rags on our backs, we shall be no worse off
to-morrow than we were this morning."

"Why, that's true enough!" cries he, plucking up his courage. "Let the
thieving rascal take our poor nag and our things for his payment, and
much good may they do him. We will wipe this out of our memory the
moment we leave his cursed inn behind us."

It seemed to me that this would not greatly advance us, and maybe Don
Sanchez thought the same, for he presently asks:

"And what then?"

"Why, Señor," replies Dawson, "we will face each new buffet as it comes,
and make a good fight of it till we're beat. A man may die but once."

"You think only of yourselves," says the Don, very quietly.