THE VELORIO.
It was very late when the conspirators separated, and when the last groups of officers left the rancho, the sound of the Indian horses and mules proceeding to market was audible on the paved highway. Although the darkness was still thick, the stars were beginning to die out in the heavens, the cold was becoming sharper—in a word, all foretold that day would soon break.
The two travellers had seated themselves again at a corner of the table, opposite one another, and were dumb and motionless as statues. The host walked about the room with a busy air, apparently arranging and clearing up, but very anxious in reality, and desirous, in his heart, to be rid as soon as possible of these two singular customers, whose silence and sobriety inspired him with but slight confidence.
At length the person who had always spoken on his own behalf and that of his companion struck the table twice, and the landlord hurried up at this summons.
"What do you wish for, excellency?" he asked, with an obsequious air.
"I tell you what, landlord," the stranger continued, "it strikes me that your criado is a long time in returning; he ought to have been back before this."
"Pardon me, excellency, but it is a long journey from here to the Secunda Monterilla, especially when you are obliged to walk it. Still, I believe the peon will soon be back."
"May Heaven hear you! Give us each a glass of tamarind water."
At this moment, when the landlord brought the draught, there was a tap at the door.
"Perhaps it is our man," the stranger said.