The savages enter, preceded by a broad moonbeam, that lights them on their way, and enables them to observe the condition of the interior.
A man lying in the middle of the floor!
“Carajo!”
“Is he asleep?”
“He must be dead not to have heard us?”
“Neither,” says the chief, after stooping to examine him, “only dead drunk—boracho—embriaguado! He’s the servitor of the Irlandes. I’ve seen this fellow before. From his manner one may safely conclude, that his master is not at home, nor has been lately. I hope the brute hasn’t used up the cellar in getting himself into this comfortable condition. Ah! a jar. And smelling like a rose! There’s a rattle among these rods. There’s stuff inside. Thank the Lady Guadaloupe for this!”
A few seconds suffice for distributing what remains of the contents of the demijohn. There is enough to give each of the four a drink, with two to their chief; who, notwithstanding his high rank, has not the superior politeness to protest against this unequal distribution. In a trice the jar is empty. What next?
The master of the house must come home, some time or other. An interview with him is desired by the men, who have made a call upon him—particularly desired, as may be told by the unseasonable hour of their visit. The chief is especially anxious to see him.
What can four Comanche Indians want with Maurice the mustanger?
Their talk discloses their intentions: for among themselves they make no secret of their object in being there.