And the house might appear uninhabited, but for some peons seen sauntering listlessly around, and a barefoot damsel or two, standing dishevelled by its door, or in the kitchen kneeling over the metate, and squeezing out maize-dough for the eternal tortillas.
However, despite its neglected appearance, the hacienda has an owner; and with all their indolence, the lounging leperoa outside, and slatternly wenches within, have a master. He is not often at home, but when he is they address him as “Don Faustino.” Servants rarely add the surname.
Only at rare intervals do his domestics see him. He spends nearly all his time elsewhere—most of it in Yerba Buena, now named San Francisco. And of late more than ever has he absented himself from his ancestral halls; for the hacienda is the house in which he was born; it, with the surrounding pasture-land, left him by his father, some time deceased.
Since coming into possession, he has neglected his patrimony; indeed, spent the greater portion of it on cards, and evil courses of other kinds; for the dueno of the ill-conditioned dwelling is Faustino Calderon.
As already hinted, his estate is heavily mortgaged, the house almost a ruin. In his absence, it looks even more like one; for then his domestics, having nothing to do, are scarce ever seen outside, to give the place an appearance of life. Fond of cards as their master, they may at most times be observed, squatted upon the pavement of the inner court, playing monté on a spread blanket, with copper clacos staked upon the game.
When the dueno is at home, things are a little different; for, Don Faustino, with all his dissipation, is anything but an indulgent master. Then his muchuchos have to move about, and wait upon him with assiduity. If they don’t, they will hear carajos from his lips, and receive cuts from his riding-whip.
It is the morning after that night when the “El Dorado” monté bank suspended play and pay; the time, six o’clock a.m. Notwithstanding the early hour, the domestics are stirring about the place, as if they had something to do, and were doing it. To one acquainted with their usual habits, the brisk movement will be interpreted as a sure sign that their master is at home.
And he is; though he has been there but a very short while—only a few minutes. Absent for more than a week, he has this morning made his appearance just as the day was breaking. Not alone; but in the company of a gentleman, whom all the servants know to be his intimate friend and associate—Don Francisco de Lara.
The two have come riding up to the house in haste, dropped the bridles on the necks of their horses, and, without saying a word, left these to the care of a couple of grooms, rudely roused from their slumber.
The house-servants, lazily drawing the huge door of the saguan, see that the dueno is in ill-humour, which stirs them into activity; and in haste, they prepare the repast called for—desayuno.