“Ah, par Dios!” cried the man, laughing, “I had nearly forgotten that fellow. He is asleep, poor devil! He nearly died of cold in the night!”
“Who is he—what is he?”
“A traveller from beyond San Luis in search of Don Pedro.”
“Of me?” said Don Pedro, whose agitation became, in spite of all his efforts, visible to every one; at the same instant that, pulling back the cloak rudely, he gazed at the sleeping stranger,—“I never saw him before.”
“Come, awake—stir up, senhor!” said the driver, poking the passenger very unceremoniously with his whip. “We are arrived; this is the Villa de las Noches Entretenidas; here is Don Pedro himself!”
“The Lord be praised!” said a short, round-faced little man, who, with a nightcap drawn over his ears, and a huge cravat enveloping his chin, now struggled to look around him. “At last!” sighed he; “I 'm sure I almost gave up all hope of it.” These words were spoken in English; but even that evidence was not necessary to show that the little plump figure in drab gaiters and shorts was not a Spaniard.
“Are you Don Peter, sir,—are you really Don Peter?” said he, rubbing his eyes, and looking hurriedly around to assure himself he was not dreaming.
“What is your business with me—or have you any?” said Rica, in a voice barely above a whisper.
“Have I!—Did I come six thousand miles in search of you? Oh, dear! oh, dear! I can scarcely think it all over, even now. But still there may be nothing done if he isn't here.”
“What do you mean?” said Rica, impatiently.