Finally came a pause in Manuel's bombardment, and something like this conversation took place between the cooler actors:
Miguel (thoughtfully). “When was it thou didst petition for lands in the valley, friend Victor?”
Victor (amazedly). “Never! It is a sterile waste. Am I a fool?”
Miguel (softly). “Thou didst. Of thy Governor, Micheltorena. I have seen the application.”
Victor (beginning to appreciate a rodential odor). “Si! I had forgotten. Art thou sure it was in the valley?”
Miguel (persuasively). “In the valley and up the falda.” *
* Falda, or valda, i. e., that part of the skirt of a
woman's robe that breaks upon the ground, and is also
applied to the final slope of a hill, from the angle that it
makes upon the level plain.
Victor (with decision). “Certainly. Of a verity,—the falda likewise.”
Miguel (eying Victor). “And yet thou hadst not the grant. Painful is it that it should have been burned with the destruction of the other archives, by the Americanos at Monterey.”
Victor (cautiously feeling his way). “Possiblemente.”