Pedro laughed aloud on hearing this request.
"Harkye, shipmate, he rides seldom who only rides borrowed horses; so I ride seldom, and, being a sailor, don't overlike it. Captain Hawkshaw is an old friend of mine, and may find his horse if he inquires at Quillota." (This was said to mislead the landlord as to his route.) "All my little mistakes are rectified now, I think, eh? Adios! I shall always recommend the Posada de San Augustin to my friends. Your cooking is admirable, your wines ditto. Be assured alike of my boundless custom and most distinguished consideration when next I visit your beautiful city of Valparaiso."
And thus bantering, the ruffian rode off, leaving Fernandez, speechless with rage, to retrace his steps or enjoy the moonlight among the mountains, as he chose, on very bad terms, however, with his patron, San Augustin, whom he believed had handed him over to the Evil One.
Pedro's horse, if not swift, had good mettle in him, and trotted steadily eastward up the ascent, towards the higher ranges of hills, and ere long no less than four volcanic peaks were visible, all flaming at once, like the cones of a mighty natural furnace, and casting from afar off a glow of fire even to the zenith.
At midnight, the moonshine was still glorious. Pedro had ridden more than half-way to Santiago—thirty miles—so he stopped to rest himself, rather than the poor horse, in a little dell amid groves of mimosa trees, where parroquets, flame-coloured and green, chattered amid the branches; where the tall ceibas, or cotton-wood timber, cast their shadows on a deep and reedy lagune, whereon the giant water-flowers of that tropical region floated, and where, for coolness, the picaflor, or little humming-bird, nestled in their cups by day.
Though a South American, Pedro, as a seaman, had been long unused to the saddle. He felt as if all his bones had been mangled; wearily he threw the bridle over the stump of a broken tree, and stretched himself on the grass, while his nag drank of the lagune.
On the whole, Pedro was greatly pleased with himself. He had Don Salvador's bill for 1,000 dollars; he had ten dollars yet remaining of the plunder from the brigantine, and he had twenty pistoles and four dollars just taken from Fernandez. Then there was Hawkshaw's horse, which, with its furniture, he valued at 500 more.
"Vamas!" thought he; "at this rate I shall soon realise a fortune."
While Pedro was thus casting up this little sum, gained by his industry, he did not perceive a dark, lithe, and athletic young fellow, who had been lurking among the luxuriant weeds, and who now stole stealthily towards him, with a knife glittering in his hand; and little thought Pedro that the clink of his ill-gotten pistoles had been overheard.
This stealthy personage wore a red baize shirt, a yellow poncho cloak, or surreppa, an old-fashioned Spanish hat, much broken and bruised, and long brown leather leggings.