Some woman he meant to marry; whether she was a princess or a paisano, whether, like Ignez, the heiress of uncounted pistoles, or the pretty keeper of a taberna, mattered nothing to him provided she could supply all his little exigences till he grew tired of her, slipped his cable and ran off to sea again.
So now an opportunity of the most golden and unexpected kind—one favoured by fortune and those good old romantic accessories of all lovers and novelists—to wit, gratitude and adventure, had suddenly opened up to him.
It seemed that he had but to go in and win. He was the rescuer from death of an heiress, young, beautiful, tender, and simple "as a sucking turkey," to use one of his own peculiar forecastle phrases; so he leaped from bed about mid-day, called for a long glass of brandy and potash iced, to assist in clearing his faculties, after which he began to consider in what fashion he would "levant" from the Posada de San Augustin and set out for Santiago, without seeking for his bill, to attempt which, when he had but ten dollars in hand, would only have been an insult to his worthy host, Felipe Fernandez, whom, he had no desire to offend.
CHAPTER XIV.
HOW PEDRO PROVIDED HIMSELF WITH A HORSE AND VALET.
Santiago lies sixty miles south-west of Valparaiso towards the Andes, a rough and hilly road. To proceed there on foot by no means suited Pedro's ideas of locomotion, while to travel by any kind of vehicle might lead to detection and other serious annoyances, so, as evening approached, and Pedro considered that old Moreno and his daughter must have had ten or twelve hours' start, he became sorely perplexed.
The sun set, the moon rose, and still Pedro was undecided.
Slowly, solemnly, and majestically that broad, round silver moon ascended from the calm waters of the Pacific. White as snow shone all the plastered streets of Valparaiso, and the sea that rolled rippling into the bay, between the embattled forts, seemed a sheet of liquid sheen; but in the blue sky her silver light struggled for supremacy with a lurid red cast—not upon the clouds, for there were none—but upon the very ether itself, by the flames that were now shooting upward from the vast cone of Aconcagua.
From the windows of the front drawing-room, or large public saloon of the posada, which opened towards the bay, Pedro sauntered, sunk in thought and rage—perplexity always took that form with him—to those of the back, which overlooked the stable-yard, and there a violent altercation arrested his attention. It was taking place between no less a personage than Felipe Fernandez and a horseman who had just arrived.
"I have ridden from the Maypo River," said the latter, "and must put up here."