"Ah," the two officers said, walking quickly up to him, "who is he, then?"
An ironical smile curled Ramirez's delicate lip.
"You know as well as I do: a warm patriot, and one of the most renowned Chiefs of the revolutionary movement."
"Hum!" Don Sandoval remarked, "that is not what we want to know."
"What then?" he asked with almost imperceptible irony.
"Hang it, you say that you have lived ten years with this man," Don Serapio went on; "you must know certain peculiarities about him which no one else is acquainted with, and which we should not be sorry to know."
"That is possible; unfortunately, I am utterly unable to satisfy your curiosity on that point; if El Alferez has not thought proper to give you certain intimate details about his private life, it is not my place to reveal them to you."
Don Serapio was about to reply rather sharply to the sailor, when the door opened through which Don Alferez had gone out, and the pulquero entered, followed by a lady. The two officers could scarce refrain from a cry of surprise on recognising beneath this dress El Alferez himself. The young Chief wore feminine attire with considerable grace and reality; he walked with such ease, and appeared so accustomed to the thousand knick-nacks of a lady's dress—in a word, the metamorphosis was so complete, that, had it not been for the eye whose strange lustre the young man had not quite succeeded in subduing, the three men could have sworn that this singular being was really a woman.
The costume of El Alferez, though not rich, was elegant, and in good taste; his face, half concealed beneath the silken folds of his rebozo, partly hid his haughty expression; in his right hand he held a pretty sandalwood fan, with which he played with that graceful nonchalance so full of skill which is only possessed by Spanish women and their American daughters.
"Well, Caballeros," the young man said mincingly, in a sweet and harmonious voice; "do you not recognize me? I am the daughter of your friend Doña Leonora Salcedo, Doña Mencia."