The guide pointed to one of the guardarayas that led to the house. We struck into it, and rode forward. The path was pictured by the moonbeams as they glanced through the half-shadowing leaves. A wild roe bounded away before us, brushing his soft flanks against the rustling thorns of the mezquite.
Farther on we reached the grounds, and, halting behind the jessamines, dismounted. Clayley and myself entered the inclosure.
As we pushed through a copse we were saluted by the hoarse bark of a couple of mastiffs, and we could perceive several forms moving in front of the rancho. We stopped a moment to observe them.
“Quitate, Carlo! Pompo!” (Be off, Carlo! Pompo!) The dogs growled fiercely, barking at intervals.
“Papa, mandalos!” (Papa, order them off!)
We recognised the voices, and pressed forward.
“Afuera, malditos perros! abajo!” (Out of the way, wicked dogs!—down!) shouted Don Cosmé, chiding the fierce brutes and driving them back.
The dogs were secured by several domestics, and we advanced.
“Quien es?” inquired Don Cosmé.
“Amigos” (Friends), I replied.