"Come, come, Don Antonio," Sylvio remarked gaily, "you are suffering from what the major would call blue devils. It is a species of spleen produced by the English fogs, and not at all at home in this country, which is full of sunshine. Take my advice, colonel; have yourself bled, and in two days the fog over your imagination will be dissipated; do you not agree with me, major?"
"I wish it may be so," the old officer answered, with a shake of his head.
"Nonsense!" Sylvio remarked, "Life is too short as it is, then why sadden it by chimeras?"
"On the frontier men can be sure of nothing."
"The Indians have become lambs."
"Excellency," a slave said, opening the door, "a bombero, who has arrived at full speed, requests an interview."
The three gentlemen looked at one another.
"Let him come in," the colonel said.
Heavy footsteps echoed in the passage, and the bombero appeared; it was Pedrito. He certainly had at this moment the look of a bearer of ill tidings, and seemed to have just come out of a fight. His ragged clothes were stained with blood and mud, an unusual pallor covered his face, and he leant on his rifle, for he was exhausted by his hurried ride.
"Take this glass of wine," said Don Sylvio, "it will restore you."