At this moment the Count came up to his side.
"Eh," he said to him in a sharp voice, "who are you, and what do you here?"
The buccaneer, for he was one, raised his head, looked sarcastically at the man who addressed him so peremptorily, and then shrugged his shoulders with disdain.
"Who I am?" he replied, mockingly; "You see that I am a buccaneer, and what I am doing. I am flaying a bull I have slain. What next?"
"I want to know by what right you hunt on my land?"
"Ah! This land is yours? I am very glad to hear it. Well, I am hunting here because I think proper. If that does not suit you, I feel sorry for it, my pretty gentleman."
"What do you mean?" the Count continued, haughtily; "And how do you dare to assume such a tone with me?"
"Probably, because it is the one that suits me best," the buccaneer replied, drawing himself up quickly; "go your road, my fine sir, and take some good advice; if you do not wish your handsome jerkin to be filled with broken bones within five minutes, do not trouble yourself about me more than I do about you, and leave me to attend to my business."
"I will not allow it," the young man answered, violently; "the land you are trespassing on so impertinently belongs to my sister, Doña Clara de Bejar; I will not suffer it to be invaded with impunity by vagabonds of your description. ¡Viva Dios! You will decamp at once, my master, or, if not—"
"If not?" the buccaneer asked, with eyes flashing fire, while the Major-domo, foreseeing a catastrophe, prudently glided behind his master.