"Santas tardes!" he said as he raised his hand to his hat, but not removing it.
"Dios las de a usted buenas!" the ranchero answered. "What shall I serve to your excellencies?"
"A bottle of mezcal," the stranger said.
The newcomers seated themselves at the end of the room, at a spot which the light reached in such a weakened state that it was almost dark. When they were served each poured out a glass of liquor, which he drank; and leaning his head on his hands, the Mexican appeared plunged in deep thought, not occupying himself the least in the world about the persons near him. Curumilla crossed his arms on his chest, half closed his eyes, and remained motionless.
Still the arrival of these two men, especially the presence of the stranger, had suddenly frozen the eloquence of our three friends. Gloomy and silent, they instinctively felt that the newcomers were enemies, and anxiously waited for what was about to occur. At length Red Cedar, doubtless more impatient than his comrades, and wishful to know at once what he had to expect, rose, filled his glass, and turned toward the strangers.
"Señores caballeros," he said, imitating that exquisite politeness which the Mexicans possess in the highest degree. "I have the honor of drinking to your health."
At this invitation Curumilla remained insensible as a granite statue: his companion slowly raised his head, fixed his eye for a moment on the speaker, and answered in a loud and firm voice,—
"It is needless, señor, for I shall not drink to yours. What I say to you," he added, laying a stress on the words, "your friends can also take for themselves if they think proper."
Fray Ambrosio rose violently.
"What do you say?" he exclaimed in a threatening voice. "Do you mean to insult me?"