“’Tis true I heard something that sounded like a threat; but what need you fear from a man who can have no control over you or your sister? You say she scorns his suit. If that be so, I cannot understand how she is in danger.”
“Ah! ñor deconocio! you know not our country, else you might understand. The man you speak of has power; that is, if he be still alive.”
The speaker glanced significantly towards the blood-stained cutlass.
“Power! How?”
“He is my captain. I am one of a band of guerilleros, raised in our village and neighbourhood. This man, Don Ramon Rayas, is our chief. He had his appointment from the dictator himself, Don Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna. It’s a puzzle to me—and to others as well—how he obtained it: for it’s well known that before the beginning of this war with the Americanos, Rayas was a salteador.”
“A highway robber!”
“Neither more nor less, ñor capitan.”
“I heard you apply that unenviable appellation to him. But what can be his motive for attempting to take your life?”
“Only to get rid of me; and then Lola—my poor sister would be more easily—carrai! you know what I mean!”
I needed not a more ample explanation, though Calros proceeded to give it.