The hands of Don Fernando were small, and delicately gloved; his feet, showing the nobility of his blood by their diminutive size, were encased in varnished boots,—a luxury unheard of in these distant regions. His costume, of amazing richness, was absolutely identical in shape with that of the vaqueros. A diamond of immense value fastened the collar of his shirt; and his zarapé was worth more than five hundred piastres. For the present, we will conclude the portrait here.
Two years before our narrative commences, Don Fernando Carril had arrived at San Lucar, knowing nobody; and everyone had asked, Who is he? Where does he come from? Whence does he derive his riches? And where do his estates lie? Don Fernando bought a hacienda a few leagues from San Lucar. Under pretence of defending it against the Indians, he fortified it, surrounded it with palisades and a moat, and furnished it with two small pieces of cannon. In this way he had kept his doings secret, and curiosity at bay. Although he never opened his hacienda to receive a guest, he was himself received by the first inhabitants of San Lucar, whom he visited most assiduously, till suddenly, to the great amazement of all, he disappeared for several months.
The ladies missed their practice in smiles and ogling, the men their occupation of contriving adroit questions to entrap Don Fernando. Don Louis Pedrosa, whose post as governor gave him a right to be inquisitive, could not help feeling uneasy about the stranger; but, wearied with conjecture, he was obliged to trust to time, which, sooner or later, reveals all mysteries. Nothing more was known of the man who was standing in the clearing, listening to Pablito.
"Enough!" said this personage, interrupting Pablito, in a fit of passion; "You are a dog, and a dog's son."
"Señor!" exclaimed the latter.
"I feel inclined to crush you, wretch!"
"A threat! And to me!" shouted the vaquero white with fury, and unsheathing his knife.
Don Fernando seized the man's fist with his gloved hand, and gave it such a sudden and violent wrench, that the vaquero dropped his weapon with a groan.
"Down on your knees, and ask for pardon!" the don went on, hurling the wretch to the ground.
"No! I will die first!"