"I don't suppose you remember me? I have not been here for a very long time."
"I never forget a face that I have seen in my café," replied the host in French, with a strong Italian accent.
"This, Luigi, is my present captain, an English milord, travelling in his yacht; and this, captain, is the once well-known Roman brigand, Luigi Querini. Oh, an awful cut-throat in his time, I assure you."
Querini shook his head sadly. "But not so now, signor. I am getting old. Heigh-ho, but those were grand days we had in the Abruzzi Mountains before Victor Emmanuel's gendarmerie spoilt Italy."
"Sit down and have a glass with us, Luigi," said the mate. "Salud y pesetas—health and dollars to you; that's an old River Plate toast. Luigi knows Buenos Ayres well, captain. He'll tell us all about it."
"Yes, I know it too well," said the old man. "I was a soldier of the Argentine Republic, and lived on mare's flesh on the Indian frontier for four years."
"What made you do that?" asked Carew.
"I see you are a stranger to South America, sir. Understand, I was not a volunteer. I had a misfortune, and therefore was pressed into the army for punishment."
"To have a misfortune is a Pampas euphemism for having murdered a man," explained the mate.
"There is, as you know, no capital punishment in the River Plate," continued the Italian; "if a man kills another the penalty is so many years' service in the army."