The woman understood the sign, and handed me the jar. I drank copiously, passing it to my comrades, Clayley and Raoul. Chane at length took the jar; but instead of drinking immediately, as might have been expected, he set it between his knees and looked quizzically up at the woman.
“I say, my little darlint,” said he, winking, and touching her lightly under the ribs with his outstretched palm, “my little moochacha—that’s what they call thim—isn’t it, Raowl?”
“Muchacha? oh yes!”
“Well, thin, my purty little moochacha, cudn’t yez?—ye know what I mane—cudn’t yez? Och! ye know well enough—only a little—jist a mouthful to take the cowld taste aff the wather.”
“No entiende,” said the woman, smiling good-naturedly at Chane’s comical gestures.
“Och, the plague! there’s that tin days agin. Talk to her, Raowl. Tell her what I mane.”
Raoul translated his comrade’s wishes.
“Tell her, Raowl, I’ve got no money, becase I have been rabbed, de ye see? but I’ll give her ayther of these saints for the smallest thrifle of agwardent;” and he pulled the images out of his jacket as he spoke.
The woman, seeing these, bent forward with an exclamation; and, recognising the crucifix, with the images of the saint and Virgin, dropped upon her knees and kissed them devoutly, uttering some words in a language half Spanish, half Aztec.
Rising up, she looked kindly at Chane, exclaiming, “Bueno Catolico!” She then tossed the rebozo over her left shoulder, and hurried off across the yard.