None of them appeared to be over thirty years of age. Not one of them was ill-looking; and yet there was not one who inspired me with that unpleasant feeling too often the concomitant of love.
From all that I had yet seen, the rivalry of Rayas, Calros’s enemy, was more to be dreaded than that of any of his friends.
Vicente Vilagos was the oldest of the party, and evidently their leader pro tem.
It was no longer a question of carrying Calros to Jalapa. That, to his friends, would have appeared absurd—perhaps not the less so were Lola to urge it.
She said nothing, but stood apart. I fancied she was not too content at their coming, and the fancy was pleasant to me!
Surrounded by her enthusiastic friends, for a time I could not find an opportunity of speaking with her. I endeavoured to convey intelligence with my eyes.
The Jarochos are sharp fellows; skilled in courtesy, and thorough adepts in the art of love. I had reason to be careful. My peculiar position was against me, as it marked me out for their observation.
Their glances, however, were friendly. They had gathered some particulars of what had passed between their compatriot and myself.
“Come!” said Vilagos, after some minutes spent in arranging their plans. “’Tis time for us to take the road. ’Twill be sundown before we can rest under the palm-trees of Lagarto.”
The poetical phraseology did not surprise me: I knew it was Jarocho.