And now the neophytes were sending their cries down the valley:
“Rojerio Rocha! A welcome to Rojerio Rocha! Welcome to the señorita’s husband-to-be!”
Suddenly the caballero began to give more interest in the proceeding.
“Rojerio Rocha, eh?” he mused. “The husband-to-be of Señorita Anita? Upon my soul, this is to be interesting. I presume I’ll have an interview with the gentleman before the end of the day. Well, I am prepared for it. Have at you, Señor Rojerio Rocha!”
He laughed aloud like a man enjoying an excellent joke, and standing beside the teepee watched the arrival with wide and glistening eyes.
The riders stopped at the end of the adobe wall in a cloud of dust, the Indian a short distance in the rear to handle the pack mule. His master swept sombrero from head, bowed, and dismounted. Neophytes held back, but the frailes crowded forward and around him, and Señor Lopez, making his way through the crowd like a ship through tossing waves, stalked toward the new-comer with arms extended and moustaches lifted by a broad smile.
“A welcome, Rojerio Rocha!” he called. “Welcome to San Diego de Alcalá! No man is more welcome than you!”
“I thank you,” the new arrival said. He stood beside his horse, one arm over the animal’s neck. Señor Lopez noted that he had broad shoulders and a high brow, that he was handsome, that his moustache was curled in the approved fashion and his clothing bore the stamp of mode. He appeared such a man as those at San Diego de Alcalá had hoped he would be, for it was fitting that the co-heir of old Señor Fernandez should have appearance and dignity.
“How like you his looks, señorita?” Señora Vallejo asked of the girl, as they stood in the doorway of the guest house, and the crowd parted for an instant so they could see.
“Splendidly! If his disposition is as good——”