"How strangely things come to pass in this world," said Tom Bartelot, in a low voice. "So this is a son of the old hermit we buried in that lonely islet of the South Sea."
"Strange, indeed. We should speak to him about that while he can understand us."
"Barradas," said Bartelot, "your name is Pedro Barradas, I believe?"
"Yes," replied Pedro, opening his large, black, bloodshot eyes, and surveying the speaker inquiringly and with a sad earnestness.
"A Mexican Spaniard?"
"Yes, senores; or Spanish Mexican, which you please," said he, sighing wearily.
"From Orizaba, in La Vera Cruz—Orizaba, near the Rio Blanco?"
"Yes," replied Pedro, while something of native suspicion crept suddenly over his pale face.
"And your mother?"
"Oh, my mother!" he exclaimed in an indescribable voice, "what of her?"