“Wait a minute and I will recall myself,” said he, passing his hand over his forehead. “I am known as Fragoso, at your service; and I am still able to curl and cut your hair, to shave you, and to make you comfortable according to all the rules of my art. I am a barber, so to speak more truly, the most desperate of Figaros.”
“And what made you think of——”
“What would you have, my gallant sir?” replied Fragoso, with a smile; “a moment of despair, which I would have duly regretted had the regrets been in another world! But eight hundred leagues of country to traverse, and not a coin in my pouch, was not very comforting! I had lost courage obviously.”
To conclude, Fragoso had a good and pleasing figure, and as he recovered it was evident that he was of a lively disposition. He was one of those wandering barbers who travel on the banks of the Upper Amazon, going from village to village, and putting the resources of their art at the service of negroes, negresses, Indians and Indian women, who appreciate them very much.
But poor Fragoso, abandoned and miserable, having eaten nothing for forty hours, astray in the forest, had for an instant lost his head, and we know the rest.
“My friend,” said Benito to him, “you will go back with us to the fazenda of Iquitos?”
“With pleasure,” replied Fragoso; “you cut me down and I belong to you. I must somehow be dependent.”
“Well, dear mistress, don’t you think we did well to continue our walk?” asked Lina.
“That I do,” returned the girl.
“Never mind,” said Benito; “I never thought that we should finish by finding a man at the end of the cipo.”