“Perfectly well, and your very humble servant, reverend father; and your worship also, I trust you are in good health?”
“Sin novedad—without novelty;” which, since it was one hour and a half since our friends had separated to take their siestas, was not impossible.
“Myself and the worthy José,” continued Fray Augustin, “were speaking of the vile invasion of a band of North American robbers, who three years since fiercely assaulted this peaceful Mission, killing many of its inoffensive inhabitants, wounding many more, and carrying off several of our finest colts and most promising mules to their dens and caves in the Rocky Mountains. Not with impunity, however, did they effect this atrocity. José informs me that many of the assailants were killed by my brave Indians. How many said you, José?”
“Quizas mo-o-ochos,” answered the Indian.
“Yes, probably a great multitude,” continued the padre; “but, unwarned by such well-merited castigation, it has been reported to me by a Chemeguaba mansito, that a band of these audacious marauders are now on the road to repeat the offence, numbering many thousands, well mounted and armed; and to oppose these white barbarians it behoves us to make every preparation of defence.” [30]
“There is no cause for alarm,” answered the Andaluz. “I (tapping his breast) have served in three wars: in that glorious one 'de la Independencia,' when our glorious patriots drove the French like sheep across the Pyrenees; in that equally glorious one of 1821; and in the late magnanimous struggle for the legitimate rights of his majesty Charles V., king of Spain (doffing his hat), whom God preserve. With that right arm,” cried the spirited Don, extending his shrivelled member, “I have supported the throne of my kings—have fought for my country, mowing down its enemies before me; and with it,” vehemently exclaimed the Gachupin, working himself into a perfect frenzy, “I will slay these Norte Americanos, should they dare to show their faces in my front. Adios, Don Augustin Ignacio Sabanal-Morales-y Fuentes,” he cried, doffing his hat with an earth-sweeping bow; “I go to grind my sword. Till then adieu.”
“A countryman of mine!” said the frayle, admiringly, to the administrador. “With him by our side we need not to fear: neither Norte Americanos, nor the devil himself, can harm us when he is by.”
Whilst the Trueba sharpens his Tizona, and the priest puffs volumes of smoke from his nose and mouth, let us introduce to the reader one of the muchachitas, who knelt grinding corn on the metate, to make tortillas for the evening meal. Juanita was a stout wench from Sonora, of Mexican blood, hardly as dark as the other women who surrounded her, and with a drop or two of the Old Spanish blood struggling with the darker Indian tint to colour her plump cheeks. An enagua (a short petticoat) of red serge was confined round her waist by a gay band ornamented with beads, and a chemisette covered the upper part of the body, permitting, however, a prodigal display of her charms. Whilst pounding sturdily at the corn, she laughed and joked with her fellow-labourers upon the anticipated American attack, which appeared to have but few terrors for her. “Que vengan,” she exclaimed—“let them come; they are only men, and will not molest us women. Besides, I have seen these white men before—in my own country, and they are fine fellows, very tall, and as white as the snow on the sierras. Let them come, say I!”
“Only hear the girl!” cried another: “if these savages come, then will they kill Pedrillo, and what will Juanita say to lose her sweetheart?”