The room into which Oliver was thus introduced was elegantly furnished, large Venetian blinds interrupted the rays of the sun, the floor was covered with one of those soft petates which the Indians alone know how to manufacture; a hammock of aloe fibre suspended by silver rings from hooks of the same material divided the room in two. A man was lying in this hammock fast asleep. It was don Melchior de la Cruz; a knife with a curiously embossed silver hilt, with a wide long blade sharp as a viper's tongue, was placed on a low sandalwood table within reach, by the side of two magnificent revolvers.
Even in his own house, in the middle of Puebla, don Melchior thought it right to be on his guard against a surprise or treachery. His fears, however, were not at all exaggerated, for the man who is at that moment before him might fairly be reputed one of his most formidable enemies.
The adventurer surveyed him for some minutes, then advanced softly to the hammock without producing the slightest noise. He took the revolvers, concealed them under his gown, seized the knife, and then gently touched the sleeper. Though the touch, was so light, it sufficed to arouse don Melchior. He at once opened his eyes, and stretched out his arm to the table by a mechanical movement.
"It is useless," Oliver said to him, coldly; "the weapons are no longer there."
At the sound of this well-known voice don Melchior sprang up as if moved by a spring, and fixing a haggard eye on the man standing motionless before him, he asked, in a voice choked by horror—
"Who are you?"
"Have you not recognized me yet?" the adventurer remarked, jeeringly.
"Who are you?" he repeated.
"Ah! You require a certainty: well, look!" and he threw back his hood on his shoulders.
"Don Adolfo!" the young man muttered, in a hollow voice.