"It would be useless, my dear Don Torribio," said Don Pedro, interrupting him, and exhibiting a certain degree of stiffness. "I have the honour to tell you that my daughter cannot have the pleasure of seeing you today."
"Then pray, cousin, excuse my inopportune intrusion. Perhaps I shall be more lucky another day."
"That is it; some other day, when we have got rid of these cursed pagans, and have no longer a horrible death in perspective."
"And now," said Don Torribio, with ill-suppressed rage, "as I perceive that, owing to your abstraction doubtless, you have not even offered me a seat, cousin, I have no more to do than offer my good wishes for your safety, and take my leave of you."
The hacendero did not seem to observe the tone of ill humour in which these words were uttered.
"Good-bye, then, Don Torribio," said he, "and a lucky journey. Above all things, be prudent, and do not travel with your eyes shut. The roads are infested by brigands, and I should be in despair if you met with mishap."
"I thank you for your advice, and will follow it," he replied, turning to leave the room.
Just at this moment Don Estevan—who, as we have said, appeared to be sleeping—opened his eyes, and perceived Don Torribio. His look brightened.
"Mother," said he in a feeble voice, "and you, Don Pedro, do me the favour to leave me alone with this caballero for a short time. I have a few words to say to him in private."
"To me, señor?" asked Don Torribio, in a tone so haughty it sounded like disdain.