Satisfied on this head, he proceeded onward.
At the distance of some three or four hundred yards from the outside stockade stood a detached cabin, more than half hidden among the trees.
Towards this he directed his steps.
Five minutes sufficed for him to reach it; and, on arriving at the door, he knocked upon it with the butt of his umbrella.
“Quien es?” spoke a voice from within.
“It’sh me, Manuel—me—Shessuron!” replied the Jew.
“It’s the Dueno,” (master), was heard muttering one of the Spaniards to the other—for the cabin was the dwelling of these notable negro-hunters.
“Carajo! what does the old ladron want at this hour?” interrogated the first speaker, in his own tongue, which he knew was not understood by the Jew. “Maldito!” added he, in a grumbling voice; “it’s not very pleasant to be waked up in this fashion. Besides, I was dreaming of that yellow-skin that killed my dogs. I thought I had my macheté up to the hilt in his carcase. What a pity I was only dreaming it!”
“Ta-ta!” interrupted the other; “be silent, Andres. The old ganadero is impatient. Vamos! I’m coming, Señor Don Jacob!”
“Make hashte, then!” answered the Jew from without. “I hash important bishness with both of yoush.”