"Come," he said, in a softer key, "why should old friends quarrel? Con mil demonios—I am only here with a good intent, and to do you a service."
The squatter laughed contemptuously.
"You do not believe me," the monk continued, with an air of beatitude; "that does not surprise me, it is always so. Good intentions are misunderstood, and a man believes his enemies in preference to his friends."
"A truce to your nonsense," the squatter said, impatiently; "I have listened to you too long already; let me pass, and you can go to the devil."
"Thanks for the proposition you make me," the monk said with a laugh; "but if you have no objection, I will not take advantage of it, at least for the present. But, jesting apart, there are two persons close by anxious to see you, and whom I am sure you will be delighted to meet."
"Whom do you mean? I suppose they are rogues of your own sort."
"Probably," the monk said; "however you shall judge for yourself, gossip."
And, not waiting for the squatter's answer, the monk imitated thrice the hiss of the coral snake. At the third time a slight movement took place in the shrubs a short distance off, and two men leaped into the defile. The squatter uttered a cry of surprise, almost of terror, on seeing them: he had recognised his two sons, Nathan and Sutter. The young men walked up quickly to their father, whom they saluted with a respect mingled with irony, which did not escape his notice.
"Ah, there you are, father," Sutter, said, roughly, as he banged the butt of his rifle on the ground, and rested his hands on the muzzle; "a man has a hard run before he can catch you up."
"It seems that since our separation father has turned Quaker; his new religion, probably, orders him not to frequent such bad company as ours."