“Carrambo, señor! It is strange you should ask that. I thought everybody knew,” was the answer.
“Knew what?”
“That El Capitan Carrasco is un pocito de salteador.”
I was less astonished at the declaration, than the manner in which it was made.
The young Mexican appeared to treat the thing as of no great consequence, but rather a matter of course. He seemed to look upon it in the light of a levity—scarcely a crime—one of the Cosas de Mexico!
He was more serious when replying to my next question: “Has this Captain Carrasco any acquaintance with the daughters of Don Eusebio Villa-Señor?”
“Why do you ask, caballero?” he said, turning pale at the mention of the name; “You know them?”
“I have not the honour of knowing them, except by sight. I saw them this morning at matins. I saw Carrasco there too. He appeared to take an interest in their devotions.”
“If I thought so I’d—. Bah! it is not possible. He dare not—. Tell me, caballero; what did you observe?”
“Oh, nothing more than I’ve said. What do you know about it yourself?”