Chapter Forty.
A Faithful Steward.
The spot where they had now made stop—final for the night—was still far below the summit of the mountain. It was a sort of platform or bench, formed by the crest of a projecting spur, the cliff rising sheer at its back. Its level surface was only a few acres in extent, supporting a thick growth of tall evergreen pines, the long-leaved species indigenous to Mexico. Centrally there was a place clear of timber, which ran up to the cliff’s base, or rather to a building contiguous to it. In front of this they halted, Rivas saying—
“Behold my humble abode, caballeros! Let me bid you welcome to it.”
There was light enough to let them see a massive pile of mason work outlined against the cliff’s façade, while too dim for them to distinguish its features. They could make out, however, what appeared to be a pair of windows with pointed arches, and between them a large doorway, seeming more like the mouth of a cavern. Out of this came a faint scintillation of light, and as they drew up to it, a candle could be seen burning inside a sort of covered porch, resembling the lych-gate of a country church. There were some stone benches outside, from one of which a man started up and advanced toward them, as he did so putting the formal question—
“Quien es?”
“Yo, Gregorio!” was the answer given by Rivas.
“El Capitan!” exclaimed the questioner, in a tone also telling of pleased surprise. “And free again! I’m so glad, Don Ruperto! Praise to the Lord for delivering you!”
“Thanks, good Gregorio! And while you’re about it, you may as well give part of your praise to a lady, who had something to do with it—indeed, two of them.”