"Be it so! Instead of one, I have now two children. Come, my sons, supper is waiting."
"My name is Fernando, mother."
"I will not forget it," was her smiling answer. They entered the dwelling, while some peones led away the horses to the corral.
Don Fernando had not deceived his friend; he had in truth given him a mother.
The meal proceeded with the cheerfulness to be expected from three persons who, although strangers three days before, had suddenly understood and appreciated each other: that is to say, it was gay and cordial. No allusion was made to the impromptu band which had linked them together so intimately and unexpectedly.
As soon as the peones had retired, and their masters found themselves alone, they left the table, and betook themselves, as on the previous day, to an inner room, where, sheltered from prying eyes and ears, they ran no risk of having their conversation overheard, commented on, and perhaps reported.
"Shut the door," said Don Estevan to Don Fernando, who was the last to enter.
"Not so," replied the latter; "we will leave it open: by this means we shall both see and hear anyone who may come near us. Take this as a general rule: never close the door when you have secrets to tell."
Don Estevan drew forward some butacas (seats), sat down, lit his cigarette, and turning to the hunter, said:
"Now for our talk!"