The man whom the marquis had called immediately after his interview with the mameluco, and whom he had at once ordered to enter his tent, was short and thick, but well made and strong, and about forty years of age.
An Indian of a pure race, he bore on his countenance, which neither tattoo nor paint disfigured, the distinctive traits, although a little effaced, of the Mogul race. His black eyes, lively and full, his straight nose, his large mouth, his rather high cheekbones, formed a physiognomy which, without being handsome, was not wanting in a certain sympathetic charm. As we have said, he commanded some soldados da conquista attached to the caravan.
The captain, for such is the title that he bore, respectfully saluted the marquis, and waited till it might please him to speak to him.
"Sit down, Diogo," said the marquis, kindly; "we must have a long talk together."
The Indian bowed, and seated himself.
"You saw the man who went out of this tent a minute ago, did you not?" resumed the marquis.
"Yes, your Excellency," answered the captain.
"And without doubt you recognised him."
The Indian smiled, without otherwise answering.