What had become of my cochero? Half-past nine was the hour I had usually observed him strolling forth; and I had now been upon the spot since a quarter past eight. Something must be keeping him indoors—an extra scouring of his plated harness or grooming of his frisones?
This thought kept me patient, as I paced to and fro under the portico of Don Eusebio’s “opposite neighbour.”
Ten o’clock! The sonorous campaña of the Cathedral was striking the noted hour—erst celebrated in song. A score of clocks in church-steeples, that tower thickly over the City of the Angels, had taken up the cue; and the air of the night vibrated melodiously under the music of bell metal.
To kill time—and another bird with the same stone—I took out my repeater, with the intention of regulating it. I knew it was not the most correct of chronometers. The oil lamp on the opposite side enabled me to note the position of the hands upon the dial. Its dimness, however, caused delay; and I may have been engaged some minutes in the act.
After returning the watch to its fob, I once more glanced towards the entrance of Don Eusebio’s dwelling—at a wicket in the great gate, through which I expected the cochero to come.
The gate was still close shut; but, to my surprise, the man was standing outside of it! Either he, or some one else?
I had heard no noise—no shooting of bolts, nor creaking of hinges. Surely it could not be the cochero?
I soon perceived that it was not; nor anything that in the least degree resembled him.
My vis-à-vis on the opposite side of the street was, like myself, enveloped in a cloak, and wearing a black sombrero.
Despite the disguise, and the dim light afforded by the lard, there was no mistaking him for either domestic, tradesman, or lepero. His air and attitude—his well-knit figure, gracefully outlined underneath the loose folds of the broadcloth—above all, the lineaments of a handsome face—at once proclaimed the “cavallero.”