Don Alverado, a tall, dignified looking old Spanish gentleman, with a gray goatee and aristocratically pointed moustaches, stood on the steps of the porch as they came up. His daughter threw herself from her mount as they drew close, and rushing into her father’s arms, was held there for a brief interval. After his first emotion at recovering his daughter had subsided, Don Alverado bade the servants take the Americans’ horses, and came forward, warmly thanking them for their services. It made the boys feel rather shamefaced to be thanked in such emotional fashion, for the Don would insist on kissing each of them, and by the time he got through his face was almost as black as their own sooty countenances.
Then they entered the house where, after they had enjoyed refreshing baths, a hasty breakfast, but magnificent in its appointments, was served. In the meantime, Senorita Alverado had slipped upstairs and donned a clinging gown of black, in the bosom of which flashed an immense diamond. The boys gazed at the wearer of the gem with more admiration than at the stone itself. If Senorita Alverado had looked beautiful in the lone rancho she appeared absolutely regal now.
“I see you regarding that diamond with interest, gentlemen,” said Don Alverado, “it has an interesting history. It was the present to me many years since of a man who had received it from an Indian sheep herder. This man, according to my friend, had found a wonderful cave in some mountain that he called the Trembling Mountain. My friend tried to get him to give some detail, but the Indian declared that devils lived in the mountain who would kill him if they knew he had revealed the secret of their dwelling place to the outside world; so that except for the fact that there is the stone,—and you can see for yourselves it is a beautiful one,—I regret I can tell you no more details. But, even as it is, the diamond is doubly interesting outside of its intrinsic value on account of its history.”
As the professor made no mention of their own peculiar interest in the legend of the Trembling Mountain, Jack and the rest said nothing about it. But, perhaps, all their hearts beat a little faster at this convincing proof that the strange story of Mr. Stetson’s dead protege was true.
But it had been a long night and the lads could hardly keep their eyes open, even their sense of politeness flagging under the leaden feeling that had come into their eyelids. The Don noted this, and at once suggested bed. It was high time, too, as the early sun was already beginning to light up the magnificent grounds about the place, and the boys felt like regular night owls.
Servants in gorgeous livery escorted each lad to a bedroom furnished with the gloomy magnificence characteristic of the Spanish race. But not one of them noted his surroundings as, tumbling into the deliciously cool, clean sheets and sinking into the downy mattresses, they dropped into slumber as profound as it was dreamless.
CHAPTER XIV.
EL FIESTA.