Marto, on guard at the door, came forward.
“Has the Señor Don José Perez received my message for conference?”
“Yes, my General. Except that he wished your messenger in hell, he will be happy to join you according to order.”
“Good!” grinned Rotil, “it is well to conduct these matters with grace and ceremony where a lady is concerned. Take him to the sala; it is illuminated in his honor. Come, señor, I want for witness an Americano who is free from Sonora influence.”
“Am I?” queried Kit dubiously. “I’m not so sure! I seem all tangled up with Sonora influences of all shades and varieties.”
Rotil’s jocularity disappeared as he entered the sala where quill pen and ink and some blank sheets from an old account book gave a business-like look to the table where four candles made a radiance.
Perez was there, plainly nervous by reason of the mocking civility of Marto. His eyes followed Rotil,––questioning, fearful!
The latter passed him without notice and seated himself at the table.
“Call the padre,” he said to Marto. But that was scarce needed as the padre was hovering near the door waiting for the word. He seated himself by the table at a motion from Rotil.
The latter turned for the first time to Perez, and bestowed on him a long, curious look.