“No, no, Marcos, my son, you are wrong,” said Ventura. “I am not wandering; my brain is not crazed. Although the blessed Virgin knows that I have endured enough to make me so. I am speaking the truth when I say that if you marry Carlita, after I am gone, you will be wealthy; with gold that you could not count in a lifetime, and lands where you may gallop all day long, in a straight line, without touching an inch of ground that does not call you master.”
“Well, let us go to the house, for I am fearfully hungry. I have not eaten a mouthful of food since last night,” lightly returned Sayosa.
“Por Dios, is it so? Then come, hasten; my poor boy, you must be starving,” cried Ventura, and the two men were soon eating a hearty meal, prepared by the little brown hands of Carlita.
She was a tiny, fairy-like creature, but with an admirably modeled form, of exquisite grace and beauty. She had the large, lustrous black eyes that are seen only to perfection in Mexico, but more especially in the valley of Jalapa. Her hair was worn rather short, curling in masses around her small head and graceful neck, glossy as the plumage of a raven, and with the same blue-black sheen. Her arms, hand, tiny-slippered foot and trim ankle were matchless even among the ones to whom such charms are hereditary. And although so young in years, but little past her buen quince (beautiful fifteen), she was a fully-developed woman. Those years passed under the sun of a Southern sky are what two or three and twenty are in our temperate climate.
Her father had appeared at their present situation when she was yet an infant, and although, from the great contrast between the two, it was hinted they were not of such close relationship, yet he was her father.
With them had come a boy, Marcos Sayosa, who had been taught to call the one uncle and the other cousin. But when he grew older and began to ask about his parents, Tomas Ventura told him that he was not a nephew, or, indeed, any relation whatever. That a man and woman had come to his house, asking shelter, where he had been born. The father was badly wounded in the conflict with banditti in which they had lost their all, excepting the clothes they wore, and had managed to escape and wander to his hut. The man died of his wounds, and after Marcos’ birth his mother sunk rapidly from grief for her husband, and on the third day she also died. They were buried side by side, and Ventura determined to adopt the child, calling it after its father’s name, and had done so, rearing him as though he was of his own flesh and blood, although it was a constant struggle with him to obtain food for the mouths of those dependent upon him.
This was the story that Marcos had heard. Who or what his parents were he could not learn. They had been robbed of every thing—not even a scrap of paper was to be found—and in their woful condition Ventura had not ventured to question them; and no clue, excepting the one name, was dropped from their lips.
With this Sayosa was forced to be content, and as his years increased, he learned to love the sweet Carlita, and she him. They were pledged to each other, and until the hour in which he met Luisa Canelo, he had thoughts for none other. But now he was bewildered, and knew not what to do. Although he declared to himself that he loved Carlita, and her only, his thoughts would wander to Luisa, and her image was far oftener present to his mind than he would have cared to admit.
CHAPTER VII.
FELIPE’S VISITOR.
“Well, Pepe, what is it?” a little impatiently asked Felipe Canelo, as a vaquero paused at the entrance of the little arbor within which he was seated with Luisa.