Don Fernando gave a sigh of satisfaction. All was quiet about the dwelling; all the inhabitants seemed wrapped in repose. The secret of his nocturnal excursion was safe.
He unsaddled his horse, groomed him carefully,—so as to leave no signs of his ride,—and led him to the corral, where he carefully divested his hoofs of the pieces of sheepskin, turned him in, closed the door, and softly returned to the zaguán.
Just as he was about to climb into his hammock, he observed a man, who, leaning against the doorpost with his legs crossed, was calmly smoking his pajillo.
Don Fernando recoiled on recognising his host; it was, in fact, Estevan Diaz.
The latter, without the slightest semblance of surprise, took the cigarette from his mouth, blew out an enormous mouthful of smoke, and addressed his guest in a tone of the most polished courtesy.
"You must be greatly fatigued with your long ride tonight, caballero. Will you have anything to restore you?"
Don Fernando, horrified at the coolness with which this was uttered, hesitated for a moment.
"How am I to understand you, caballero?" said he.
"How?" said the other. "Pooh! What is the use of dissembling? I assure you, it is useless to attempt to blind me: I know all."
"You know all! What do you know?" replied the Mexican, anxious to ascertain how far Don Estevan was acquainted with what had occurred.