Calros had been placed upon a stretcher; and his bearers had already carried him outside the tent. Some broad leaves of the banana had been fixed over him as an awning, to shelter him from the rays of the sun.
“Ñor deconocio,” said Vilagos, coming up to me, and frankly extending his hand. “You’ve been kind to our con-paisano, though you be for the time our enemy. That, we hope, will soon pass; but whether it be in peace or in war, if you should ever stray to our little rancheria of Lagarto, you will find that a Jarocho can boast of two humble virtues—gratitud y hospitalidad! Adios!”
Each of the companions of Vilagos parted from me with an almost similar salutation.
I would have bidden a very different sort of adieu to Dolores, but was hindered by the presence of her friends, who clustered around.
I could find opportunity for only four words:
“Lola! I love you!”
There was no reply; not a word, not a whisper that reached me; but her large dark orbs, like the eyes of the mazame, flashed forth a liquid light that entered my soul, like fire from Cupid’s torch.
I was half delirious as I uttered the “adios.” I did not add the customary “Va con Dios!” nor yet the “hasta luego”—the “au revoir” of the Spanish, for which our boorish Saxon vocabulary has no synonym.
Notwithstanding the omission, I registered a mental vow—to see Lola Vergara again.