"Yes, señor," said the other, speaking with firmness and deliberation as if he had not heard the last remark. "The captain to whom our family owes its origin was named Rechila. He was a man of ferocious and bloodthirsty presence, a great conqueror, who extended his dominions immensely, and, from what I understand, his expeditions took him as far as Estremadura. One day, when I was a child, a crown was found buried in the foundations of the old chapel of our house."
"Really, my man, really!" exclaimed Valero, looking at him with such comic indignation that all the others burst out laughing.
But Saleta, quite unperturbed, went on to describe the treasure-trove, its form, weight, and all its embellishments, without omitting a single detail.
And Valero, without taking his eyes off him, continued shaking his head with increasing irritation.
The same thing went on every night. His colleague's unblushing lying propensity aroused in the magistrate an indignation that was sometimes real, and sometimes feigned. It was so seldom that a Galician dared to boast and exaggerate before an Andalusian, that he, wounded in his amour propre and respect for his country, sometimes wondered whether Saleta was a fool, or whether he considered his audience as such.
Really the magistrate of Pontevedra lied with so much ease, and in such a serious way, that it became a question whether he was an artful rogue, who delighted to upset his friends.
"Did you say that this ancestor of yours got to Estremadura?" asked Valero at last in a decided tone.
"Yes, Señor."
"Then it seems to me you make a mistake, for this Señor Renchila——"
"Rechila."