“Fire!” cried Roland, with the loud utterance he would have used in giving the word of command; and scarcely was it spoken when the rifle was flung to the earth, and, springing to his feet, a tall and muscular man advanced with an outstretched hand to meet him.
“Don't you know me yet, Roland?” cried a deep voice in Spanish; “not remember your comrade?”
“What!” exclaimed Casbel, as he rubbed his eyes and shook himself as if to insure he was not dreaming. “This is surely impossible! you cannot be my old friend and shipmate Enrique!”
“That am I, my boy,” cried the other, throwing his arms around him and embracing him in true Mexican fashion; “your own old comrade for many a year, who has sailed with you, fought with you, drunk with you, played with you, and swears now that he wishes for nothing but the old times over again.”
“But how came you here? and when? By what chance did you discover me?” said Roland, as he clasped the other's hand in both his own.
“'T is a long story, amigo mio but you shall have it all one of these days.”
“True; there will be time enough to tell it, for you shall not leave me, Enrique. I was longing for a face of an old comrade once again—one of the old 'Esmeralda's,' with whom my happiest days were passed.”
“I can well believe it,” said Enrique; “and it was to see if wealth had not sapped your courage, as I know it has your high spirits, that I took aim at you, a while ago. Had you quailed, Roland, I almost think I could have pulled the trigger.”
“And I had well deserved it, too,” said Cashel, sternly. “But let us hasten forward. Enrique, I am longing to see an old friend beneath my roof,—longing to see you seated opposite to me, and answering the hundred questions about old friends and times that are thronging to my mind.”