“Yes,” I answered.
“Ah, conspirator. I see; I see!” He nodded his head several times, and then growled sentences that I could not understand.
While I stared at him he turned away again, and with a soft and stealthy tread made the entire circuit of the room, feeling of each piece of furniture it contained, and often pausing for many moments in one spot as if occupied in deep thought.
At last he approached the bed again, dragging after him a chair in which he slowly seated himself opposite me.
“Retain your couch, señor,” he muttered. “I shall not disturb you, and it will soon be morning. You may sleep.”
But I was now fully awake, and had no intention of sleeping while this strange individual occupied his seat beside me.
“Who are you?” I demanded. “A patriot?”
“Not as you use the term,” he answered, at once. “I am Mexican.”
“Mexican!” I echoed, surprised. “Do you speak English?”
“Truly, señor,” he answered, but his English was as bad as his Portuguese.