"Has he been set upon?" asked Don Torribio.
"Yes," dryly replied the hacendero; "he and another person, who, less lucky than Estevan, is most likely dead. Did you not know it?"
"I!" Exclaimed Don Torribio, with an accent of truth there was no mistaking; "How should I know?"
"Excuse me, cousin; I am so troubled at what has occurred, that I hardly know what I am saying."
Don Torribio bowed, and then replied:
"May I not have the pleasure of offering my homage to my charming cousin?"
"You must excuse her; she has retired to her room. The poor child is so distracted by the late extraordinary events, that she is unable to see any one—not even you."
"I am the more grieved at this indisposition, as I wished to have some conversation with her on a matter of moment."
"So much the worse, cousin; so much the worse. The time is ill chosen to speak of business, as you must allow, when the Indians are at our gates, devastating our fields and burning our dwellings."
"True, cousin; I acknowledge the justice of your remark. Unfortunately, I find myself placed by chance in such extraordinary circumstances, that if I might persist—"