Meanwhile the Mexican had passed out of the street.
As I believed that he had gone back to the saloon we had both lately forsaken, I started in the same direction.
I now longed to have a conversation with him; determined in my own mind that it should be more cordial than any that had yet taken place between us. I could at that moment have embraced him: for my gratitude, hitherto restrained by the thought of his being my rival, was suddenly exalted to a feeling of fervour.
I should seek an interview with the noble youth; make known who it was he had befriended; and ask if there was any way in which I could reciprocate his generosity?
My heart was overflowing towards Francisco Moreno! As he had been the cause of my late misery, I now looked upon him as the instrument of my regeneration.
“Oh! I shall make an ample return to him! But what is it to be?”
Just as I gave thought to the interrogatory, a harsh sound struck upon my ears—as if some one, suddenly stopped in the street, had uttered a cry of mixed anger and surprise. It was followed by the words:
“Que cosa caballeros? Que cosa comigo?” (What is it, gentlemen? What do you want with me?)
“Vuestra bolsa, señor; nada mas” (Your purse, sir; nothing more.)
“Carrambo! A modest demand! For all that, I’m not inclined to comply with it. You may have my purse; but not till after you’ve taken my life. Out of the way, scoundrels! Let me pass!”