“Come along!” said Seth; “we 've no time to lose. We must look out for a cheap mustang to wait for you on the Guajuaqualla road, and I have to fetch my sword; for this thing of yours is full eight inches too short.” Seth now took my arm, and I felt myself involuntarily throwing a glance at the little objects I owned about the room,—as it were a farewell look.
“What are you searching for?” said he, as I inserted my hand into my breast-pocket.
“It's all right,” said I; “I wanted to see that I had the Señhora's letter safe. If—if—anything—you understand me—eh?”
“Yes, yes; I'll look to it. They sha' n't bury you with it,” said he, with a diabolical grin which made me positively detest him, for the moment.
If Mr. Chiseller was deficient in the finer sympathies of our nature, he was endowed with a rare spirit of practical readiness. The “mustang” was found in the very first stable we entered, and hired for a day's pleasure,—so he called it,—for the sum of two crowns. A mountain lad was despatched to hold him for my coming, at a certain spot on the road. The sabre was fetched from his chamber, and in less than five minutes we were on our way to the Molino, fully equipped and “ready for the fray.”
“Don't forget what I told you about the face-guard: always keep the hilt of your weapon straight between your eyes, and hold the elbow low.” This he kept repeating continually as we went along, till I found myself muttering the words after him mechanically,—without attaching the slightest meaning to them. “The villain is a strong muscular chap, and perhaps he 'll be for breaking down your guard by mere force, and cleaving you down with a stroke. If he tries it, you 've only to spring actively to one side and give him your point, anywhere about the chest.” From this he proceeded to discuss a hundred little subtleties and stratagems the Mexicans are familiar with, so that at last I regretted, from the very bottom of my soul, that the gage of battle had not fallen upon Seth himself, so much more worthy in every way of the distinction.
If I seemed full of attention to all he was saying, my thoughts, in truth be it spoken, were travelling a vastly different road. I was engaged in the performance of a little mental catechism, which ran somewhat in this wise: “If you escape this peril, Master Con, will it not be wise to eschew fandangoes in future,—or, at least, not indulge in them with other men's sweethearts? Beware, besides, of horse-dealers, of Xeres and Paquaretta; and, above all, of such indiscretions as may make the 'Seth Chisellers' of this world your masters!” Ay, there was the sum and substance of my sorrows: that unlucky step about “Charry” and the lottery-ticket placed me in a situation from which there was no issue. I now saw, what many have seen before, and many will doubtless see again, that crime has other penalties besides legal ones, and that the difficulty of conforming to an assumed good character, with even one lapse from the path of honesty, is very considerable.
“Are you attending to me, lad?” cried Seth, impatiently. “I was telling you about the cross-guard for the head.”
“I have not heard one word of it,” said I, frankly; “nor is it of the least consequence. All the talk in the world could n't make a swordsman, still less would a few passing hints like those you give me. If the villano be the better man, there's an end of the matter.”
Seth, less convinced by my reasonings than offended at them, spoke no more, and we approached the Molino in silence. As we neared the spot, we perceived the party seated in a little arbor, and by their gestures, as well as by a most savory odor of garlic, evidently eating their breakfast.