“Do not fire, senor stranger; I am a friend.”
“Are there more of you?”
“I am alone, and, as you see, unarmed,” replied the traveler.
“Good. But who are you, and what do you seek here?” the challenger added, as he stepped from his covert among the bushes, and leaped lightly down into the pathway.
He was the beau ideal of a hardy mountaineer, tall, handsome, and of a fine, stalwart form. His dress was that of a Jarocho (as all the peasants who reside near the sea-coast and the country around Vera Cruz are termed), and wore in all its purity the peculiar costume of this class of men.
A hat of Jipajopa straw, with the broad brim turned up behind; a fine linen shirt, with a band of fine embroidery half hidden between frills of cambric, worn without any vest or coat above it; and a pair of purple cotton-velvet calzeneros, open at the knee, and falling in two points to the middle of his calf. A scarf of scarlet China crape was knotted around his waist, in which hung a straight sword, or cortente, without sheath or guard, the sharp and glittering blade of which sparkled in the bright sunshine. On his feet were half-boots of stamped Cardovan leather, heavily spiked with steel. A very valuable, if only for its gold and silver mountings, carabine was dropped into the hollow of his left arm, while the thumb and forefinger of his right hand played with the hammer and trigger, as he curiously scanned the traveler’s face and form.
“The senor can see that I am a poor, homeless traveler who has been forced to beg his way from Tabasco, on foot, old as I am. And I fear me my long journey has been for naught. I have only one hope left me now, and I seek for Don Serapio Barana, or if he is dead, any of his old band.”
“Ha! what may be your business with him, or I should say them?” exclaimed the Jarocho, in apparent surprise.
“Do you know aught of him? The blessed Virgin grant that you may say yes!” cried the traveler, eagerly. “Can you direct me to him?”
“Perhaps. But answer my question first. What is it you wish to know?”