"Since the death of my uncle, the Corregidor of Ciudad Rodrigo, in the old country, I have only one relation in the world."
"Ah, indeed!" remarked Padre Eizagiuerro, who seemed to be studying Pedro closely with his small, keen eyes.
"My father's cousin," he resumed, with a steady stare, which somewhat abashed the worthy ecclesiastic.
"May I inquire?" asked Perez, who had not yet spoken.
"Certainly—old Serrano, the Captain-General of Cuba."
"El Mariscal Duque de Serrano!" exclaimed Ugarte.
"Certainly—do you know him, Senor Padre?" continued Pedro, with affected carelessness, while rolling up a paper cigarito, knowing well that the truth of this bold statement would never be tested in the Republic of Chili; and though a citizen thereof, Don Salvador now bowed very low indeed, for he had enough of the old Spaniard in his disposition to have a respect, bordering on awe, for long names and long pedigrees. The priests glanced at each other doubtfully, but remained silent, for they were more acute men of the world than their worthy host.
"And how came you among us here in Chili?" asked Perez.
"Simply by a stroke of fortune, senor. My parole cuts me off indefinitely from naval employment; my cousin will do nothing for me, either in Castile or in Cuba, so I have come here to kill time by travelling, attended by a young fellow named Zuares, a faithful servant, whom I have lost; so I find myself," added Pedro, who, thanks to the tutelage of the old Bishop of Orizaba, could express himself well when he chose, "by the great shores of the Pacific without a single friend."
"Do not say so, I entreat you, Senor Don Pedro," exclaimed old Moreno, impulsively, as he shook the speaker's hands; "oh," he added, while his eyes filled, "how much do I owe you, Madre de Dios!—how much?"