“In which case, the sooner we start for it the better.”
“Yes, Pedro,” adds Don Estevan, speaking to the gold-seeker in a friendly, familiar way. “Ride back and give the order for resuming route. Tell the teamsters and all to do their best.”
“At your worship’s command,” returns the gambusino, with a bow, and wave of his broad-brimmed hat raised high over his head.
Then, pricking his horse with a spur having rowels full five inches in diameter, he canters off towards the caravan.
Before reaching it he again uncovers, respectfully saluting a group which has not yet been introduced to the reader, though possibly the oddest, with the individuals comprising it, the most interesting of all the travelling party. For two of them are of the fair sex—ladies—one middle-aged and of matronly aspect, the other a girl late entered upon her teens. Only their faces and the upper portion of their forms are visible, for they are inside a sort of palanquin—the litera of Mexico, used by grand dames on long journeys, and roads over which carriages cannot be taken. The face of the older lady, with dark complexion and features of Andalusian type, is still attractive, but that of the younger one strikingly beautiful; and between the two is a strong family resemblance, as there should, since they are mother and child—the Señora Villanueva and her daughter.
The litera is borne between two mules, attached to shafts fore and aft, in charge of a strapping fellow in velveteen jacket, and calzoneras, botas of stamped leather, and sombrero of black glaze, with a band of silver bullion round it. But there is a fourth personage comprising the group, unlike all the others, and bearing no resemblance to any of the wayfarers save one—the Englishman. To him the youth—for young he is—shows the likeness, unmistakable, of son to father; and such is the relationship between them.
Henry Tresillian, just turned seventeen, is a handsome fellow, fair-haired, of bright complexion, and features delicately chiselled, still aught but effeminate in their expression; instead, of a cast which proclaims courage and resolution, while a figure tersely knit tells of strength and activity equal to anything. On horseback, he sits bending over in his saddle with face to the curtains of the litera. There may be eyes inside admiring him; and the expression of his own tells he would fain have it so. But all their eyes, late full of gloom, sparkle delightedly now. The Lost Mountain has been sighted; their fears are over, and so soon will be their sufferings.
“Anda! adalante!” (advance) shouts Pedro Vicente.
His words echoed rearward along the line, followed by other cries, with a creaking of wheels and a cracking of whips, as the wagons once more got into motion.