There was only a response of snores.
"You, Pedro, attention! What's the matter here? Where are you? Wake up and stop your dreaming!"
At this the startled landlord leaped to his feet, bowing through force of habit.
"Ah, Señor Robledo! One thousand pardons!" he gasped timorously. "What can I do for you, sir?"
"You're a wretch of a tavern keeper," and the newcomer advanced upon the unhappy Pedro as though about to slay him for his drowsiness.
"Yes, señor! You are always right." The man humbly endeavored to collect his wits. "How may I serve your lordship?"
The bully swaggered, puffed his cheeks, and feeling that his host was finally awake to the seriousness of the situation, he cried out once more: "My horse stands outside by the post. He has been hard ridden, for I have come on an important mission. Varlet, go out and wash his mouth, dry him down, and don't give him water until he has cooled off. Are you finally awake, you idiotic Pedro?"
The tavern keeper gulped fearsomely, and bowed his most fetching bow, without result.
"My horse is almost dead on his legs. Be kind to him. I've had a hard ride over these miserable province roads. As for me—I want a flask of ... well ... of something decent. I know that's not in your line. Step lively now; and mind you, draw it from your private cask. My temper is no better than it should be, to-night."
The old man bowed and started to leave the big room.